


And the Story Tellers Say

by Cinderscream



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst and Fluff, Gen, Ghosts, M/M, Mostly Gen, Reincarnation, except jim and freddie, none of the oneshots are related unless I say otherwise, rami centric because there aren't nearly enough rami centric fics, rami suffers occasionally, some ship if you squint, those two are happily married
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2019-09-18 11:20:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16994049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinderscream/pseuds/Cinderscream
Summary: A collection of mostly unrelated Rami fics, because there just aren't enough.chapter seven: the one where everyone meets Sami





	1. Memories turn into Daydreams

**Author's Note:**

> So this is totally based on a comment Rami made in the SAG-aftra interview about Brian May sometimes forgetting he's not Freddie

He forgets, sometimes. 

Watching them on the recreated Wembley stage, it's like seeing a vision of the past, a recreated portrait of memory of one of the most extraordinary moments of their lives. The boys are rehearsing in full costume now and their eyes gleam with excited energy, aware that their theater audience will rival that of the true Live Aid crowd. Ben taps a soft rhythm on his kit and Gwilym  plucks idly at the Special. Joe and Rami share a quiet conversation while they wait for the techs to finish setting up.

It reminds Brian all too much of themselves, waiting in the wings before bursting onto the stage to thunderous applause, hearts thudding hard against their ribs. The director calls everyone to their marks and everyone breaks apart, swiftly heading to first position. The air suddenly feels charged, the eyes of the crew are set on the stage, their temporary makeshift crowd. 

“ _ Action!”,  _ howls the director, and after a snap Rami comes bouncing through wings, Freddie ingrained into his every moment.

The others follow, more subdued, watching Rami-Freddie prance to his piano with fondness. Brian spies the smile on Roger's face from the corner of his eye, a twin to the tiny one on Ben-Roger's lips. A moment of quiet drama passes, camera tight on Rami-Freddie's face, and then Rami disappears entirely, fingers dancing on the piano and letting Freddie take the spotlight. Brian hardly notices that they're quietly playing the track music to help the actors keep time.

Freddie's piano is impeccable and despite being advised that performing at Live Aid could damage his voice, everything about Freddie’s vocals demands attention. Gwilym-Brian and Ben-Roger smile at him, proud, while Joe-Deacy’s eyes  _ gleam. _

Then Ben-Roger kicks up the drums and the air  _ sizzles _ .

In his mind, Brian hears  the roar of the crowd, lyrics washing in from all directions because even after all this time Bohemian Rhapsody is the song of a lifetime.

His ears perk when the tempo of the song changes and Freddie  jumps out of his bench, snatching his half-microphone stand from the roadie and strutting to the beat of Radio Ga Ga to center stage. Roger’s beaming, watching Freddie perform his song again to the tune of a clapping audience only he and Brian can hear. Freddie may not exactly have been the most elegant dancer (as proven by his stint with the Royal Ballet), but his every movement is charged with electricity, sharp and distinct and  _ different _ . 

They pause for a moment when the song comes to its end, all of them beginning to pant from the effort of keeping up their manic energy. When Freddie starts the vocal improvisation, Brian has to choke back a gasp because he  _ remembers, he fucking remembers _ , Freddie’s voice strong and beautiful and the audience delighted to sing with him, matching notes like students to a vocal teacher. The crowd that day had been massive and they weren't the only stars there, but in the moment, watching them play call/response with Fred, Brian had known they were  _ their _ audience.

“Alright!” Freddie shouts.

_ ALRIGHT!  _ The audience mimics.

There’s a massive grin on his face as he pauses for the crowd’s cheer before announcing Hammer to Fall, and then he’s off again, jumping into song the way Deacy jumps into dance. Thinking of Deacy makes Brian’s chest ache, and he wishes he could see this, see Freddie on stage again, healthy and brilliant, see himself as Joe-Deacy gently bouncing to the beat, a smile quirking on his face, curly hair dancing with him. He wishes Deacy were here to see Gwilym-Brian swaying with his guitar like a rockstar dandelion, Ben-Roger drumming his little heart out while his high, classic-rock voice entagles itself with Freddie’s unique blend of operatic grit.

It would have been… nice, he thinks, the three of them together again watching themselves. Watching Freddie. Brian hopes Deacy can catch it in the theatre.

Roger actually has to stifle a laugh into his hand once Freddie starts harassing the camera man, the poor man nearly tripping over the wires tangling over his legs. Brian joins him when Freddie hops away, leg coming up daintily before smoothly making his way back to the front, drinking in the attention of the crowd. He moves in sweeping, eye-catching arcs that would be awkward on anyone else, but Freddie’s always been able to make them seem just so natural. There's no lack of love for it either because the crowd feeds off his energy, track his movements and cheer their enthusiasm as Freddie pretends to shred on his mic stand while Gwilym-Brian shreds on his guitar.

Personal space didn't exist for them and especially not around Freddie. He's back to back with Gwilym-Brian, then stalks off to share his spotlight with Joe-Deacy for moment before getting  as close to Ben-Roger as his drum kit will allow. Even though Brian’s watched this show enough to know it by heart, he still feels surprised by Freddie's erraticness on stage, his refusal to be predicted. The show is familiar, but Freddie's a storm that's different every time.

The song closes and Freddie walks briskly to stage left to grab his pale yellow guitar. He's sweaty now, they all are, but their energy is still high and Freddie's not lost an inch of his stage presence.  

“This one's dedicated to all the beautiful people”, he croons into the mic, pausing a bit to let the crowd laugh before, “and that means all of you. Thank you for coming.”

There's cheering again and they move into their Elvis tribute, Freddie's voice taking on a deeper, slicker quality. He can't quite twirl around as easily with the guitar (not like Joe-Deacy can), but he slaps the flat base and dances around Gwilym-Brian when his solo comes up. He hops back to front stage center with gusto and finishes off the song with his typical flair. Freddie hitches the guitar high over his head and it looks like he might bring it smashing onto the stage floor. Instead, he runs off to hand it back to a stage hand and steps back to the rhythmic beat of We Will Rock You.

It's a short song, but the audience always goes wild for it and Even Brain and Roger find themselves  _ stomp-stomp-clapping _ along. Freddie's vocals a bullet-like, fast and sharp and devastating. It's over too quickly (and it's always felt like a song is over too quickly, the adrenaline of their performance rushing thick in their veins long after they've packed up.)

Freddie saunters up to his piano to play his last song, delicate fingers running across the keys.

“ _ Weeeeee are the champions”,  _ he sings, and Brian tries to ignore the tears pricking at his eyes. It's been so long since he's cried while listening to one of Freddie's songs. His fingers strike every keystroke precisely, the purple lighting on his face throwing dramatic shadows across the sharp planes of his cheekbones. Fred casts a look to the side when he thanks his audience, and when he stands again he’s positively vibrant. Behind him, Gwilym-Brian is lost in the rhythm of his guitar, the smile on his face showing just how much he’s enjoying himself.

Ben-Roger would be up and dancing along with Joe-Deacy if he could, but he contents himself to rocking along on the drums, wild spikes of blond hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. Freddie throws a kiss to the audience- to his mother, eyes so very bright. From one of the camera monitors, Brian can see Lucy-Mary and Aaron-Jim in the wings, Lucy-Mary’s face alight with pride and Aaron-Jim’s lips curled into a soft, lovely smile. His eyes match Freddie’s in their vibrancy and it’s like watching them fall in love all over again.

Freddie ends their performance with a last long, powerful note, the only sign of fatigue being the slight crack as the note fades. Brian can hear his imaginary crowd blending in with the cheers of the crew and he watches the four walk off the stage with an odd sort of melancholy, first Freddie, then Joe-Deacy, followed lastly by Ben-Roger and Gwilym-Brian.

He stands, going over to meet them and he can hear Roger following him. They find the boys off to the side of the stage, huddled together and drinking greedily from cold water bottles. Gwilym (most of the Brian worn out of him) sits atop the ice chest and Joe-Deacy eyes him like he’s thinking about either sitting on his lap or pushing him off the chest to take it for himself.

“That was  _ excellent _ !” crows Roger, startling them all. Ben beams up at him from where he’s sitting on the asphalt and Joe shares a self-satisfied grin with Gwilym. 

“Great job, Fred”, Brian says fondly, putting a hand on his warm shoulder.

He doesn’t understand the sudden tense hush until he looks into Freddie’s eyes and-

Oh. 

Right.

Rami’s big, ernest  _ green _ eyes stare up at him, confused and faintly concerned and looking nothing like Freddie’s intense  _ brown _ eyes. Brian feels his stomach swoop, and the illusion cracks, not completely shattering because the eyes are different but Rami’s tilting his head the way Freddie would, lips quirking as if preparing to ask a question.

“Sorry, sorry, must be getting senile in my old age”, he laughs off, relief blooming in his chest when Roger chuckles and the boys laugh along with him. Rami’s quiet for a moment more before he smiles, a twinkle in his eye, and Brian, some tiny little part that’s never stopped grieving, almost wants to hate him for the resemblance. It’s easy to muffle it, he hardly notices it anymore.

“It really was a great performance”, he says wistfully. Rami ducks his head, Joe and Gwilym smile brighter and Ben bobs his head in excitement, sweaty blond locks bouncing with him.

The director comes over, tattered notebook in hand and Brian and Roger leave the boys at his mercy.

“I forget too, you know”, says Roger quietly, leaning close. They’d all always been so tactile, especially Roger and Freddie. Brian knows.

It’s easy with the other boys, easier because Roger’s right beside him and he’s, well, himself, and he  _ knows _ Deacy is well and alive and living happily with his family. There’s a line of separation between them and Ben, Gwilym, and Roger. It’s not quite so simple with Rami, not when he mirrors someone who isn’t there anymore. He kind of doesn’t want Deacy to be here anymore, not when Freddie’s loss had affected him the most. He doesn’t think Deacy’ll be able to hold the tears back when he watches the movie.

Brian’s had moments of seeing glimpses of a familiar face in the crowd, the faint call of a sing song voice, but it’s always been a memory coming to haunt him. Having Rami around is like seeing that ghost gain a physical form. Sometimes Freddie’s nowhere to be seen and Rami’s his normal reserved self, distant and contemplative. Sometimes he’s so painfully Freddie it hurts to look at him, hurts to hear his  _ darlings _ and  _ dears _ and Brian has to forcefully remind himself he’s not the same.

(And he’s heard the way Rami speaks of Freddie, with such respect and tenderness it’s like he  _ has _ met him, like they’ve been friends for years. Brian thinks that if Freddie were still here, he’d love Rami. No doubt he’d at least enjoy his slightly eclectic sense of fashion.)

“This movie’s going to kill us”, Roger huffs, breaking the companionable silence and Roger laughs because he’s so right.

“Yes”, he agrees, “but at least we have him again, even if it’s for a little while.”


	2. We Watch the Shows, We Watch the Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So apparently Roger Taylor and Brian May watched Mr. Robot and though "yes. the anxious tiny one who's wardrobe consists of One Black Hoodie. that's our Freddie." and my immediate thought was "lol but what if they saw The War at Home" and that's what decided it for them

“Roger! Roger you’ve got to see this!”

Roger startles awake with a snort, hastily wiping a bit of saliva from the corner of his mouth before giving Brian a bleary glare, eyes still heavy with sleep. Brian doesn’t pay him any mind, shoving him to make more room for himself on the couch, laptop carefully cradled in his hands. Roger would tell him off for interrupting his much needed nap, but there’s nothing in his vicinity to throw to emphasize his point. 

“What’s got you so excited”, he grumbles, scooting aside reluctantly. Inviting Brian to stay over in his flat had seemed like a far better idea before he’d gotten it in his head that their movie Had To Happen and had to happen Right. Not that he doesn’t agree. Roger would just prefer if Brian would save it for when he wasn’t trying to sleep.

“Oh I’ve just found this  _ amazing _ show, honestly I don’t how I’ve never seen it before but it’s so intriguing and the lead actor is so  _ good _ ”, Brian honest to god  _ gushes _ .

Roger doesn’t bother to hide his eyeroll or scoff, clearly Brian doesn’t care because he’s too busy setting up his laptop on the coffee table to notice. When he backs away to settle himself properly on the couch, Roger takes a look at the laptop screen to find a video paused on a pair of very large, silver-green eyes, the lighting of the shot making the dark bags underneath them look even darker. That’s about all Roger can see with the shot so close up so he’s not exactly sure what he’s in for. Brian’s clearly excited, practically vibrating, and Roger wonders if this is actually going to be good or just pretentious enough to pass for it.

He.

He doesn’t-

Roger does  _ not _ expect to get so sucked in, from the young man’s deep, slightly unsure “hello friend” to watching him as his ugly but familiar and comfortable world crumbles around him. All the actors are captivating, quite honestly, embodying their roles like they’re a second skin. Elliot in particular feels painfully real. Roger nearly forgets that Elliot, with his cynical eyes and contradictory heart is not, in fact, real, but actually just the hard work of a clearly talented actor.

(Somewhere in the back of Roger’s mind, the analytical part he doesn’t pay as much mind to as he probably should, it occurs to him that Elliot doesn’t quite look the part of a typical leading man. Nothing about this show feels typical though, so Elliot’s tiny, slender frame and finely featured face don’t feel out of place at all. He’s jaded and sharp and vulnerable and young and Roger thinks that he could so easily be a hateable character, but something about the actor who plays him makes that impossible.)

“Woah”, says Roger eloquently. “Did we really just watch all of that?”

Brian nods, eyes a little glazed but no less excited since he’d first walked in with his laptop in hand. It's dark out now, moonlight flashing through the curtains though Roger could have sworn the midday sun had been struggling in through gray clouds. Roger's old bones are starting to ache from sitting so long and clearly Brian feels the same because he starts shifting too, creaking like an old fence. They don't feel tired though, not enough to head to bed and Roger wonders if it'd be a good idea to watch the second season immediately.

“We should look up the lead”, Brian says thoughtfully, twisting his back to make his spine crackle back into alignment.

Roger finds himself agreeing, wondering if the same tiny nugget of an idea in his head is also forming in Brian's. Brain peers at the tiny letters of the credits with his reading glasses until he finds what he's looking for, triumphantly pointing out the print next to Elliot Alderson's. It reads, promisingly, Rami Malek.

Brain pulls up another tab, pecking in the name with careful fingers into the search bar and sharing a look with Roger before hitting  _ enter.   _

Rami Malek looks different outside of the grim lighting of Mr. Robot, skin flushed a healthy brown, catlike smile big and bright, his large, green (sometimes blue) eyes holding a perpetual mischievous twinkle. His hair, though cropped short, is wild with curls and Roger almost does a double take when he looks at his age because for some who's allegedly thirty-five, he looks no older than twenty-five.

His filmography is a strange collection of minor parts, culminating into his breakthrough with Mr. Robot, though after watching a few clips of The Pacific, they wonder why it took so long. He looks even tinier in that, all fragile bird bones containing more attitude than his body can probably handle and Brain laughs, saying it reminds him of Roger in their early years. Roger's matured enough to accept that he's right.

… But he's not quite mature enough to keep himself from hitting Bian.

“Oh, you know who would have loved that?” Roger asks, pointing out the clip of Malek cheerfully dancing in what looks like an entire Pharaoh costume, somehow managing to look regal instead of like an overdressed child despite his baby face.

Brian grins, eyes soft and fond and they both announce “Freddie” at the same time. Freddie would have no doubt adored swinging the golden cape around and prancing about like he was royalty. He did it often enough crown or not.

Malek makes for an endearing little vampire, large eyes accentuated by the red contacts, face softened by his curly hair. It's contrasted by his oddly terrifying (if sad) video game counterpart though they don't spend too long on that. They'd rather see him acting rather than animated.

Brian goes to click on an interview before something else catches Roger's eye and he snatches the wireless mouse out of Brian's hand to click on it.

“What is it?” Brian asks, more confused than anything.

Roger points to the title of the video, showing that someone had taken the time to collect all of Malek’s scenes from a TV show into an hour long compilation. It’s clear it’s an old show from the grainy, blurry quality of the video and the humor is an uncomfortable kind of off-kilter, but Roger would be remiss to say he isn’t enjoying Malek’s character. 

“It’s like if Freddie had a very awkward son”, Roger cackles while on the screen Kenny sassily responds to something his friend says. Brian nods in agreement, curly white hair bouncing along with him.

“Couldn’t you just imagine him and Jim raising this kid”, Brian jokes, eyes wide as Kenny hurriedly breaks away from the girl that had tried to kiss him.

“God forbid, he’d end up as spoiled as the damn cats”, huffs Roger.

It’s probably about halfway through the video that Kenny accidentally outs himself via ice cream flavor joke and Roger nearly snorts out the tea Brian had gone to make at some point because Freddie would have definitely lost his shit at that. Kenny looks so happy, though, finally admitting he’s gay and Roger tries not to think about just how happy and content Freddie had been with Jim, how sweet and pure they’d been with each other. (Damn, he’s not thinking about it, he’s here to  _ laugh _ ).

And because there is a God and He wants to make Roger miserable, the very next scene is Kenny cheerfully announcing that his parents have kicked him out.

“Oh”, says Brian quietly.  _ Oh _ , Roger mentally agrees.

They’re just a little more solemn as they continue to watch, though not much seems to have changed other than Kenny seeming to get more screen time. It’s obvious from earlier scenes that Kenny had chafed from his strict household, but he doesn’t break out of his old habits now that he has the freedom, and maybe that makes Roger think of how rebellious Freddie had been in contrast. He’d grown up in a somewhat similar family, after all.

And then comes the scene that makes Roger’s heart  _ ache _ .

Kenny and his friend’s mother are situated on the couch, the blond woman excitedly clutching at her green sketchbook. Kenny’s smile is polite, hands crossed neatly on his lap. Like the first time he’d been shown the redesigns of the basement, he doesn’t sound very enthusiastic about them and Roger’s curious about the punchline right up until he realizes there is no punchline.

“I’m not gonna be here that long”, Kenny snaps, hunching in on himself, making himself look even smaller.

“My parents are going to take me back”, a desperate, pleading look, “aren’t they?”

Roger’s pretty sure without having to actually watch the show that this is probably the most emotionally poignant moment in the whole damn thing and Malek’s acting honestly belongs on something far more deserving. It moves back to the comedy pretty quickly, but that part sticks with Roger, which is something he’ll probably have to think about later.

“He’s just as ridiculous with boys as Freddie”, Brian says with an eye roll after a few minutes. Kenny’s just entered the house after his date, face scrunched in delight.

“I think he might be a little more charming”, Roger retorts later as Kenny melts into the sofa, grinning ear to ear after being told his eyes are soulful. He’s disgustingly wholesome and adorable.

They finally pause the video there, exhaustion having crept up on them like the long shadows coming through Roger’s open window. Roger groans when he reads the 1:15 am time stamp on the computer corner, standing up to stretch.

“You think we’ve found him?” Brian asks with a yawn, joints creaking from disuse.

Roger thinks about it for a second, about the awkward gay teenager they had just been watching to the anxious young man trying to save a world he can’t really connect with outside of code and circuitry.

“Yeah”, he says, nodding slowly, “I think we have.”

…

“Hello, sorry I’m late!” says Rami Malek several months later, looking wide-eyed and very small next to Brian on the doorstep of Roger’s flat. He gives them his sheepish little cat-grin, hands tucked into his stylish coat to protect them from the cool weather outside. 

“You’re fine, you’re fine, practically already in character”, Rogers says, smiling kindly and letting him in. He could be wrong, but he feels like an important puzzle piece just slid into place and their (Freddie’s) movie is just a little closer to happening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from Radio Gaga
> 
> I'm having fun writing these, and like, I'm totally not opposed to suggestions if yall have any


	3. Familiar, Like Something I Used to Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rami is Freddie's reincarnation. Feeling like two people in one body is about as fun as it sounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this ended up longer than I intended, woops. But it was mostly born of a fun, what-if kind of thought and how well Rami encompasses Freddie on screen

Sometimes, Rami wakes up from the strangest dreams. He’s four years old, shivering in the cold November air, his brother hogging all the blankets and blinking away after-images he doesn’t understand from a dream he doesn’t quite remember. There’s a strange scent lingering in his nose, sweet as the candy his mother rarely lets him have but he can’t identify it. Rami sits up, tiny fingers curling into the fabric of his soft sleep shirt. 

Normally he can brush the dreams off, but this one has left him feeling bereft, a strange feeling of loss pushing against his chest. Rami doesn’t understand why he can’t push it off as easily as when he’d lost his favorite toy or when his brother had eaten the last piece of cake, and it’s frustrating him, roiling in his belly with enough force to bring tears to his eyes. There’s emotions tumbling about that he doesn’t know what do with, quick flashes of  _ he doesn’t know _ and this is probably the worst one he’s ever had because he can’t stop shaking and everything is  _ too much all at once _ .

“Ram?” calls his brother’s sleepy voice. It sounds too far away and Rami doesn’t have a voice to respond with.

“Ram”, says Sami again, this time in front of him. Rami didn’t see him crawl out from under the covers.

_ My twin, my brother _ , Rami thinks distantly, because Sami’s good, Sami’s always been there, Sami’s familiar.

It only seems to unsettle the strange  _ thing  _ in his chest further though. It doesn’t want Sami to be his mirror, too small, hair too curly, eyes too blue and it takes Rami a moment to realize he’s wailing now. He’s upsetting Sami, who normally always calms him down, tears of frustration beginning to gather on his eyelashes.

“Rami Rami Rami”, Sami chants, hands curling onto his twins shoulders to shake him. He’s never had to do more than say his brother’s name to make him happy again and Rami’s screams  _ scare  _ him, sharp and visceral like he’s never heard.

Finally, the door to their room slams open, the frantic eyes of their mother glowing in the dim lighting. She practically flies to their bed, hands fluttering over their fragile frames in search of injuries, anything that would cause her children to cry so loudly and suddenly in the night.

“ _ What happened, what’s wrong _ ?” she asks, her arabic sounding harsh and wrapped in a gleaming foil of worry. 

“ _ Rami was crying _ ”, Sami hiccups, wiping tears away from his fearful eyes. 

“ _ An’ he wouldn’t stop an’ he was scaring me an’ I thought he was dyin _ ”, he continues, curling into his mother’s side. She hushes him, gently pulling both of her boys to her and rocking them, humming nonsense until at last they both calm down.

“ _ Did you have a bad dream _ ?” She asks Rami, who’s whimpering quietly into her stomach.

He nods, still unable to find his voice. Maybe the thing in his chest stole it.

“ _ It’s alright _ ”, says his mother, “ _ It was just a dream, mama’s here, you’re okay” _

The words remind him of-

He doesn’t know. 

Same words, different language. 

Rami falls asleep again, with the odd thought that his mother’s name is not Jer.

* * *

 

“What song is that?” asks a classmate to another, the music from their teacher’s tinny computer speakers swirling through the room. 

“‘39”, answers Rami immediately.

He looks up, startled, to find his classmates looking at him with surprise. Rami’s oddly irritated that they didn’t know it, feels a surge of defensiveness for someone else for- Brian. Brian? Brian. Brian May wrote this song, and for some reason he can’t fathom, that information floats up to the top of his head as easily as  _ I’m Freddie Malek and I’m ten years old _ .

No wait.  

Did he call himself something else? No, no, he’s Rami, Rami’s been his name for the past ten years, spelt like Sami but with an ‘r’ and pronounced rah-mee and it’s what his mother and father and brother have called him forever.

_ You’re being ridiculous _ , he imagines Brian May saying, and for some reason it feels right. If only he knew who Brian May was and why he likes the stars so much.

“Rami, are you finished?” His teacher looms in front of him, her blue eyes expectant. Rami looks at his worksheet and shakes his head, pursing his lips.

All he’s done so far is draw a fat little cat.

* * *

 

_ Speech is hell _ , thinks Rami uncharitably, looking over his notecards and trying not to peer at the classroom of bored teenagers hoping to settle for a B while the handful of actually passionate ones look frantically over their own cards. The substitute teacher leans casually against an empty desk, head cocked in interest. 

Rami puts his heart into the speech, as much as he hates it, because putting his all into this is better than putting his all into nothing. There’s a slight slur of a lisp to his words, but he’s clear and precise, a little slow in his delivery but that’s alright because at least he no longer has an accent to distort his meaning. He makes eye contact like he's supposed to, tilting his head on occasion to empathize a point and trying to keep himself from gesturing too much.

When he's done, the class claps politely and Rami collects his papers to go back to his seat. He can't help the little flourish of a bow he gives as he steps away from the podium, cat-smirk twitching on his lips. It feels right.

Roger would call him dramatic, certainly.  

Rami doesn't startle when those strange thoughts crop into his head anymore. He's never met Brian or Roget or John, yet he feels like he has, like they're friends he hasn't see in a very long time and he yearns for them. Rami doesn't remember actively listening to much Queen, but at fifteen he knows more about them than his sixty year old teacher who'd seen them at Live Aid.

The aching  _ loss _ that had settled in his chest long, long ago seems to only melt away when he listens to their music. Looking at pictures of them seems to help too except-

Rami can't stand looking at pictures of Freddie. He can't stand looking at himself in the mirror or looking at Sami afterwards either and it's always the same problem, has been since they were four-hair too curly, eyes too blue, teeth too small. Sometimes it's that his nose isn't straight enough, others his eyes are too large. It's a strange, visceral feeling, of his body feeling not his own, that something's not quite right.

It makes Sami worry because Sami can read him like his thoughts were printed out for him. Rami wishes it could be as easy as saying that sometimes he thinks he's not Rami, that memories from a childhood not his own trickle in to his mind, that phrases in Farsi he never learned flash in his consciousness. No, he doesn't think even Sami would be able to believe that.

“Mr. Malek?” says the voice of the substitute, breaking him out of his thoughts, unexpected enough to make him jump.

Rami looks up at him, wondering if he'd been too lost in his thoughts and missed something.

“Yeah?” he says, feeling embarrassed at the thought that maybe the substitute had been calling his name for a while.

The substitute smiles down warmly at him, and Rami notes that he's holding a stapled stack of papers.

“You were pretty good up there”, he says with a nod toward the podium. His tone is genuine and Rami smiles in thanks.

“I was just wondering if maybe you'd be interested in something more interesting. See this?” He holds up the papers. “It's a script. I'm part of a theater program and if you think this might be your thing, I want you to try out.”

_ You absolutely don't have the patience for that _ , Rami imagines Brian warning him. He mentally scoffs at him, reaching out to take the script.

_ I do what I want _ , he huffs back, not acknowledging that he's not actually talking to anyone.

Mental Brian thinks he's being childish. To be fair, Rami  _ is _ actually a teenager.

* * *

 

Rami doesn't know how, but he clicks with acting faster than he probably did with his own brother. 

It's-

It's-

Rami doesn't quite have the vocabulary to explain the feeling of molding himself into someone not-Rami, not-Rami but still-Rami, Rami seeing through the eyes of someone who shares nothing with him but his appearance. The more he works on a role, the more he becomes a vessel for his character,  print turned to flesh as a puzzle piece of a story.

A little dramatic, maybe, but Mental Roger thinks it suits him.

_ Prancing ‘round on a stage, demanding to be the center of attention? Suits you, Fred. _

Rami wishes he'd stop calling him Fred. (That Mental Roger is just a piece of his brain calling himself Fred is on the list of things Rami won't acknowledge.)

Mental Brian's just impressed that he hasn't thrown a fit about how often they have to repeat scenes. Fred never liked being repetitive. Rami reminds that strange little thought that he's  _ not _ Freddie.

(And that he does the scene just a bit differently every time because there's no sense in giving the same performance.)

The heat of the blinding stage lights, the enraptured crowd, the presence of his supporting actors, it all feels comforting and familiar in a strange way that satisfies the odd thing in his chest just enough to let him breath. Which is great because there are days where he feels so heavy with loss that crawling out of bed seems impossible and the slightest thing makes him want to scream with longing, fingers clutching at his hair and tears squeezing from his eyes. (Those days, thankfully rare, Sami tells their parents that Rami’s sick and that he’ll bring him his homework from school later.)

* * *

 

He still dreams. 

Flashing lights and skin tight costumes, his voice (not his voice?) loud and operatic, occasionally rasping but always beautiful, and there’s an audience loudly cheering-

-they shouldn't be loud in a theatre-

-it’s a concert, silly-

Brian’s guitar splitting the air with it’s fierce melody and Deacy, Deacy’s smiling at him so brightly it hurts, they’re no long on stage but sat atop a picnic blanket and Roger’s picking at the jade grass, not even noticing when Brian steals his hat. There’s a ceramic bowl in his hands, swirls of leaves and flowers decorating it’s glazed sides, fragrant tea scenting the air and filling his nose when he takes a drink. There’s a chill in the air so he pulls his yellow jacket closer and-

-He’s singing again, voice booming across a massive stadium, the crowd echoing it back at him, happy to be held in the palm of his hand-

Hand. 

Jim’s holding his hand, smile soft even as they kiss and he misses him so fiercely it hurts, his chest feels on fire but it’s alright because Jim’s holding him, garden calloused fingers stroking his cheek. He plays the piano for him and Jim’s eyes glow, watching his long fingers glide along his piano to the tune of-

-Love of My Life and the audience is singing along and

And

And

Rami always wakes up exhausted from these, fingers twitching for an instrument he’s never even touched, his own name not registering in his head for a minute.

* * *

 

“You’re really sure about that acting thing, huh”, says Sami, tugging at one of Rami’s curls and completely ruining the slick look he was going for. 

“Yeah, asshole, I’m not terrible at it”, Rami responds, slapping Sami’s hand away from his hair and digging around for the comb he’d had just a second ago. “Who on earth let you be tech crew anyways.”

Sami laughs at him, completely unrepentant, comb and gel appearing in his hands like magic. Rami lets him fix his hair again, aqua eyes identical to his own watching him through the mirror. The double reflection would normally make him feel ill, but his twin’s hands are comforting and the smell of stage makeup is familiar and calming on a strange number of levels.

“Mmm, yeah, actually, it’s pretty scary how good you are at it”, Sami hums after a moment of quiet, wiping gel off his fingers onto his black t-shirt and then frowning at the stains it leaves behind.

Rami smirks at him, annoyingly cat-like, and hands him a napkin. Sami gives him a look that, clear as day, says  _ fuck off _ and Rami’s smirk turns into a wide grin, eyebrows rising high on his forehead.

“God, stop reading each other’s brains, it’s creepy”, one of their castmates says as he passes by to grab the eyeliner. Rami and Sami give him identical looks of disinterest and he scurries along faster.

“You two are insufferable”, the stage manager says from behind them, eyes glued to his cue sheet, hand tapping nervously on his headset.

“Actually, it’s scientifically proven that everyone loves twins”, Sami retorts and Rami nods.

“Especially when they wear matching costumes”, he adds. The stage manager levels them with the flattest stare he can muster before heading backstage to check on props.

“He always gets so anxious before a performance”, says Rami, eyes overbright with excitement.

“Not everyone has your confidence on stage, Rams.”

“I can’t help it if the stage is my home, darling.”

Sami doesn’t say anything about the strange little slip, too used to his brother saying odd things and doing odd things to find it all that abnormal. Besides he’s right; Rami loves the stage almost as much as it loves him.

* * *

 

Playing the part of a closeted, gay teenager isn’t anywhere near the challenge Rami thought it would provide. It’s entirely too easy to slip into that mindset, sighing away at his inability to find a nice boy. 

(Rami… may or may not imagine that Kyle is actually Jim. 

And. Look. He’s at the point where denial just doesn’t work anymore. The dreams, the thoughts, memories of intimate moments he’s never had, conversations never heard, it’s too much to ignore that some itty, bitty tiny part of Freddie Mercury may be in him. Somewhere, somehow, Freddie’s throwing himself around in his brain and it’s affected Rami far too much to ignore. An accent creeps into his words and his family only brushes it off because he’s known for making up characters, but the nightmares and the slips into Farsi and the little quirks that Sami never learned are harder to let go.

But anyway. Rami pretends that Kyle is Jim because Kyle (awkward, pasty, baby faced-not that Rami has much room to talk-) is just not his type.)

And okay, the show isn’t exactly. Great. Rami’s scenes are few and far between, often he’s the butt of a joke which is exactly as fun as it sounds but! It has its moments. And maybe he’s more Freddie than he wants to admit because his little hand flourishes and gestures come without thinking, as does the terror of anyone finding out he-his character- isn’t straight.

It’s a fear Freddie had felt more acutely in the 70s and Rami decides that if the anxiety is just going to come to him like that, the he’s damn well going to use it. Everyone else just thinks he’s an exceptionally talented actor, which is nice, he really does put in a lot of work even for small roles.

And then his character goes and outs himself.

Some part of him is laughing because really  _ which one’s the gay flavor _ is peak humor and this show doesn’t deserve it. The other half, the one that’s constantly trying to override everything Rami with everything Freddie is petrified, the words ringing too loud in the sudden quiet of the garage set, vision swimming until the cameras disappear and it’s just him and a man so much bigger and meaner than him. The part of him that’s laughing also curses whatever genetics made him so damn tiny.

And then the scene is over and Michael’s patting him on the shoulder, telling him what a good job he’s done. Rami’s more Freddie than Rami right now, the fear scrambling in the wake of the flush of disappointment of not having done it well enough.

“Could have been better”, he mutters to no one, and sets off to find a bottle of water.

* * *

His character’s wardrobe is so bland.

Rami eyes the brown checkered polo and plain jeans he’s been handed, missing the the polo that had at least had a lovely set of rainbow stripes over a blue base that had brought out his eyes. Then again, if the Freddie part of his brain had any say in it he’d be wearing the most ridiculous costumes he’d ever seen.

_ But you’d look good in them!  _ Argues the Freddie side of his brain.

_ I’m trying to be low-key! _ Rami argues back. Mental Brian and Roger roll their eyes at him. Mental Deacy typically stays quiet and it feels like he’s being watched judgmentally. 

So he agrees the polo’s ugly, but he also knows Kenny better than Freddie does and Freddie’s no actor and Rami knows for a fact that Kenny doesn’t want to be too flagrant in his dress sense. On the bright side, he can sneak in a bit of his lisp and mannerisms, though he’s not allowed to have any of the confidence of Freddie’s later years.

(Rami doesn’t have to pretend that Jackson’s Jim. He may not be Freddie’s type, but he’s most certainly Rami’s type)

* * *

 

So. Finding out he's allergic to cats sucked. That's not going to stop him from petting them, though.

* * *

 

Putting on the first costume for the Ahkmenrah role is the most terrifying moment in Rami’s life. 

Not because he’s it’s hitting him that this is his first feature film or that Ben Stiller is reading lines with him or that Robin Williams is just over there, being fitted to be Teddy Roosevelt. It’s not the massive set or the huge cameras or the amount of crew swarming around.

No, Rami could have handled all that with just a touch of nerves.

What’s getting him is that he’s just. He’s gone, Rami’s gone and Freddies looking around wide-eyed and painfully unsure but valiantly trying to look like he knows what he’s doing… And mostly succeeding because if there’s one thing Freddie has in this body not quite his own it’s his goddamn confidence. Rami feels like he’s watching it all from a honey-colored filter, muddled, muddied, incomplete and Freddie’s-

He’s Freddie-

No he’s Rami-

Freddie swishes his cape, grin lighting his delicate features. He’s doesn’t think he’s had a golden cape before, bright and yellow and lovely, heavy in the best way. He blinks and it’s Rami swishing the cape, big eyes bright with delight because he’s going to be a king again (no no no, he’s a queen, but- they’ve called him king before but)-

Rami’s never been a king-

_ Course not darling I’m a queen _ -

The crown is a familiar weight on his head, it feels right, a little different from the one he usually wears, but a crown is a crown he supposes. He catches his reflection and-

He’s smaller than he was in the 80s, a shame, hell he doesn’t remember being this tiny in the 70s, but the khol they’ve put around his eyes really make them  _ pop _ (make them look like huge pools of blue-green when he’s still expecting round mischievous browns) and it would be really nice if he brain would just  _ settle _ for second.

“Hey Rami, you excited to start?” asks one of the cowboys, an extra-James, Rami reminds himself.

“Hell yeah, dude”, he answers and his voice sounds like it has an echo, deep and slightly slurry followed by a light, airy melodic reverb.

The man keeps talking but Ram-Fre- he’s trying to make his head stop feeling like a shaken snow globe. He's surprised when when his thoughts actually do fall into alignment, though it feels different, as if Freddie and Rami had mixed in together and can no longer be disentangled from each other. They’re a single entity now, and Rami’s bemused that the semi-fusion was brought on by a damn costume of all things. Then again, he, Freddie, has always enjoyed extravagant costumes, so he isn’t all too surprised.

Like a rubber band snapping back into place, he fully comes back to the present when James lightly slaps his arm and walks off, a  _ break a leg echoing behind him. _

Rami nods, crooked grin wide. He’ll give ‘em a show alright. The hole in his chest aches a little less.

* * *

 

“Do you even, like,  _ try _ to make any role you do seem, ya know, straight”, Sami asks, throwing a piece of popcorn at Rami’s head as they’re marathoning The Pacific. 

Rami attempts to catch it in his mouth, fails because it hits him on the nose, and watches in betrayal as it falls quietly to the carpet. He doesn’t bother to pick it back up.

“No”, he answers, eyes falling back to himself as Snafu watching Joe as Sledge. There’s something like fondness in the bitter quirk of his mouth, and Rami knows that despite his stoic demeanor, it freaks Sami out when he plays character like this, sharp and harsh with eyes shaded in fear or anger or pain.

Rami hasn’t even told him about Mr. Robot yet.

He can’t help the little smile that springs on his lips when Sledge smiles at Snafu. It reminds him too much of sharing smiles and stories with Joe on and off set, of keeping close through terrifying drills and being covered chest deep in mud and dirt. Joe had felt… familiar and strangely comforting even when Rami had known him for all of a day. He doesn’t know what it was that had them sticking so close, but he was grateful for it, to have someone to be close to on such an intense project. (It had helped their on-screen chemistry too, which was a bonus.)

“Am I ever going to be able to watch an interview where you don’t look thirsty as shit for the dude next to you?” Sami asks a little later. On the tv, Snafu’s attempting to comfort Sledge about the loss of his dog. He’s trying his best.

“Not likely”, Rami says with a yawn. God himself couldn’t stop him from being affectionate with other men. He’s asleep when Sami throws another kernel of popcorn at him.

…

He wakes from a pleasantly dreamless nap to find Sami looming over him. 

“Why’d you leave Sledge on the train?” he growls, looking as if Rami had committed a personal offence to him.

“You know I’m not actually a soldier from World War II right? I never left anyone on a train, I have Joe’s number on my phone and I’m in a group chat with the rest of the guys”, Rami explains patiently, rubbing his tired eyes.

Sami purses his lips, eyes (green in the dim lighting of the tv) squinting at him suspiciously.

“You don’t even like social media”, he says, accusatory.

“It’s a bunch of close friends in a group, dumbass, it doesn’t count as social media”, Rami responds smugly, sleepy cat-smirk curving his mouth. Sami snorts at him, shoots him a deadpan look, and goes off to raid the kitchen.

_ Oh, he’s gonna love Mr. Robot,  _ thinks Rami, before going back to sleep.

* * *

 

_ You’re not going to cry, that’s ridiculous _ . 

Rami’s just gotten off the phone and he’s sitting alone in his trailer, staring at the square piece of plastic in his hand, breath shallow and his chest feeling like it’s been scooped right out for the first time in years. He hadn’t even heard their voices but oh god, oh it’s happening, his vision’s blurring and there’s a lump in his throat that’s making it difficult to draw in air.

Elliot’s hoodie is normally too big for his thin frame, but right now it feels suffocating, too thick, too warm, his heart sharply  _ tick tick ticking _ against his ribs, harsh and fast. His brain’s threatening to drop him into another collection of flash-memories, of his life Before, and right now he doesn’t feel like he can handle that so he does his damndest to get himself together again.

They called him for the role of Freddie Mercury.

He doesn’t have his eyes or his voice or his damned teeth anymore, but they want him to go in, to try and be Freddie-himself-again and he doesn’t know if he can. He doesn’t know if he’d be able to bear seeing Roger and Brian again and not have Deacy at his side.

But. 

Rami has to try.

* * *

 

He’s at the doorstep of Roger’s house (it’s no longer a flat, muses the Before part of his brain). He’s a little late, but there’s a numb calmness keeping his panic at bay, a panic he hasn’t felt for a performance since back when he was kid doing his first show in high school. 

The door swings open, and he has to fight to keep himself from surgeing into Roger’s arms, teasing him about his Santa Claus beard, or laughing at how Brian’s kept the same hair for forty-odd years, or, god forbid,  _ crying _ . Rami keeps the reins on his surging emotion  _ tight _ , politely apologizes for his tardiness, and allows himself to be led inside. Keeping his mind blank is imperative right now, so he doesn’t think about the changes Roger’s made to his home or the pictures of himself (back when he was Freddie) scattered among those of his family or the fact that being between Roger and Brian again makes the roaring hole in his chest calm in a way it hasn’t since he first became one Freddie-and-Rami.

“Now, we did get your audition video, but unfortunately Roger didn’t download it correctly the first time so we’ve decided to download it properly this time and you can watch it with us”, Brian’s saying cheerfully, and Rami’s heart drops a little.

Oh god, he’s going to have to watch them watch him.

And, okay, he knows it’s not  _ bad _ , all he did is copy one of his old interviews, the mannerisms and answers coming as easy to him as breathing. He just. Doesn’t think it’s going to be easy to have Brian and Roger watch, old insecurities rearing their snake-like heads (though a part of him wonders if they’ll  _ know _ if they’ll  _ see _ , if they’ll be able to tell the difference between the actor and the singer. Perhaps they’ll only see the performer and see neither.)

Rami feels frozen, breath trapped in his lungs, heart refusing to beat. He doesn't dare look at either of his former bandmates, instead concentrating on himself on Roger's monitor.  His accent’s not crisp enough, his posture’s too sloppy, he's too twitchy, none of it is enough, why is he here, he can't even play his damn sel-

“Oh Fred”, sighs Roger and Rami blinks, finding a pair of heartbroken blue eyes right on him.

“Who do you trust the most?” Brian asks him and Rami's knee jerk reaction is some amalgamation of Jim-Deacy-Roger. That feels like it would give too much away though, and the pain in his chest is enough to make him ill so he settles, quietly, on-

“Mary.”

She knows where his ashes are, after all.

* * *

 

Meeting Ben and Gwilym is fun. Seeing Joe again is godsend and they practically fly into each other's arms, Joe (who hasn't been starving himself for roles for years), easily lifting him in a circle and causing Rami a fit of giggles. Brian watches, beaming, while Roger laughs at how Freddie and Deacy were much the same. 

Rami doesn’t start his horrible, shaking sobs until he's ensconced in his trailer, feeling a lot more like Elliot Alderson than Freddie Mercury these days.

He met Jim. Well, not Jim, but Aaron, who’s eyes (big and brown and so, so beautiful) are just like Jim’s. It had only reminded him that his Jim is gone and more sobs bubble up at the thought, because he can’t be with his Jim in death, not when he’s here as Rami. He’ll have to content himself with being Freddie for the short time he’ll get.

Oh. Lucy’s nice. He’s sure she’ll make a nice Mary. And Allen Leech seems too nice to play Paul, but then again, that means Rami gets to kiss him, which should be fun.

Mostly, he just wants to see Jim again.

* * *

Brian wants to give him his first piano lesson.

Rami hasn’t been feeling well, not since the phone call, and they’ve gone and changed his diet again which is. Great. It’s not like Sami teases him enough for being the tinier twin. But Brian wants to cheer him up and give him some one-on-one time with him so he offers piano lessons and Rami, having never touched a piano in his life, accepts.

It’s quiet in Brian’s house-though Rami had been sure they’d be practicing in a studio. It’s neat and tidy, and like at Roger’s, Rami ignores anything that could potentially throw him too off-kilter. The piano is simple, polished white wood, old but clearly well taken care of and Rami feels as if he’s in a trance as he slides his fingers across the ivory keys, pausing when his finger roams across a chipped one. Roger, probably.

“Why don’t you take a seat?” Brian instructs, gesturing to the padded bench.

Rami hesitates for a heartbeat, the air charged with… something, and then sits.

_ Oh _ , he thinks, before Rami-and-Freddie disappear into someone finally fleshed out and complete, eyes fluttering, fingers lifting delicately to poise themselves on the keys. He doesn’t even hear Brian talking as he begins to play, the sweet chords of Love of My Life chiming to life in a way they haven’t since Freddie’s death.

Brian’s mouth snaps shut, eyes huge behind his reading glasses, all thoughts of teaching turning to mere whisps.

Rami doesn’t see him, doesn’t even hear when he frantically calls Roger, it’s only him and the piano and the music in his head he didn’t know was trapped in there. The little bit of void in his chest he’d thought would permanently hurt forever quietly closes up and quite possibly for the first time in his life, he feels at peace. There are no memories running rampant in his mind, puzzle piece sensations falling into place.

This.

This feels like home.

“ _ Freddie”,  _ says Roger, enveloping Rami into a bone crushing hug, tear tracks gleaming unnoticed on his cheeks.

“Hello Rog”, Rami murmurs into his shoulder.

“You're really him, aren't you? All the interviews had us thinking maybe, but then nah- it couldn't be and then your  _ audition _ and, and now this! Fred, why didn't you try and contact us!” Roger's voice is scolding, and Rami would have never thought he'd be on the receiving end of that tone (unless it was from Brian).

“Oh, and say what? ‘Hey, it's Freddie, my entire appearance and voice is different now but it's totally me, back from the dead, and totally not some drunk asshole who somehow found your number’”, he says sarcastically. Brian places a hand on his curly head and scratches his scalp to sooth him.

“He's got a point there, blondie”, chuckles Brian, taking the liberty of stealing one of Freddie's old nicknames for their drummer.

Roger grumbles, but concedes.

“You think we should tell Deacy?” Rami muses, tapping a few notes on the piano. It sounds vaguely like a slow version of Seven Seas of Rhye.

“He'd kill us if we didn't!” Roger splutters, outraged, thunking Rami on his shoulder. Rami sticks his tongue out at him, ignoring Brian's mutter of  _ children.  _ He's allowed to indulge himself.

“God, of course you came back looking at least thirty percent more like a cat, bastard.” And Rami laughs, because it's maybe a little true.

Oh. He almost forgot.

“Um. Would it- I, I'd actually prefer if you call me Rami”, he says, not looking at either of them, scared to find disappointment in their eyes. It's his old friend insecurity, come to pay him an unexpected visit with his other friend, unlikely shyness.

“Of course, Rami, it's your name. You're our Freddie, yes, but you're our Rami now to”, says Brian gently and Rami feels his stomach flutter with grateful warmth.

“Now, Mr. Malek, I hope you're ready because the first thing they're filming? It's Live Aid.”

Rami grins, blue-green eyes ablaze and Roger and Brian grin with him. Of course he's fucking ready. He's Freddie-fucking-Mercury.

And.

He's Rami-goddamn-Malek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope that was fun
> 
> chapter title: Familiar from Steve Universe
> 
> Suggestions welcome!


	4. Then I'd Still be Where I Started

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Deacy (eventually) finds out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and by popular demand, a sequal to the third chapter of reincarnated Freddie/Rami

Brian and Roger won’t let him out of their sight. 

It’s amusing, truly, the way they keep him just in the corner of their eyes, how they crowd around the set crew to anxiously watch him do scenes or get fitted or get his makeup done. It’s rare that they’re not nearby and Rami lets them indulge in it. He’s sure that once they get over the shock of having Freddie back they’ll give him his space again because surely they’ll know he won’t simply disappear if they look away for one second. 

(And, well, the others are starting to notice their strange vigilance, but Rami’s managed to pass it off as them wanting to make sure he can properly capture Freddie’s essence. No need to tell them that he’s actually Freddie’s second coming.)

Rami’s mostly used to the attention by now anyways, though he thinks the scrutiny now might be a little more than when he was doing Mr. Robot. At the very least, his castmates are experiencing the same level of vigilance from the media, giving them all something to bond over. 

They’re all in the “band” room, Ben raiding the mini fridge, Gwilym sprawled along the couch, worn book in his hands, and Joe playing on a battered blue DS, sunk into a beanbag in the corner. Rami’s curled himself into a tiny ball under Gwil’s legs, rereading his script and trying to ignore the headache that’s been building since the day he played the piano at Brian’s. It’s likely from the valiant effort his memories are making to align themselves into some semblance of order, Rami-and-Freddie childhoods trying furiously to override each other. It hasn’t affected his work yet, but he’s scared of getting a memory flash while doing a scene and freaking out or slipping or fragmenting the fragile balance he’s finally managed to achieve.

At the very least, there’s no hole in his chest anymore, swallowing up the air from his lungs with constant agony, only tempered by being dulled to an always present ache over the years.

He runs his fingers over his temple, wishing he'd had the forethought to bring some sort of pain medication. Rami remembers the headaches he'd had when playing intense characters like Elliot and Snafu and chides himself for having learnt apparently nothing from past experience, grimacing as another bolt of pain pierces through his head.

“Rami, you alright?” asks Gwilym, poking him gently with his foot, concern wrinkling his forehead.

“Yeah, I'm alright. Just not enough Jim in here for my liking”, Rami responds, not wanting to worry anyone. The headache will pass before long. And technically, he’s not lying, he'd already complained to Brian and Roger about the tragic lack of Jim in the script (to which they'd only been able to shrug, as they had much more control over the music than the script).

Gwilym doesn't look convinced eyebrows scrunching further together, and Rami gets a vivid vision of Brian looking at him the exact same way, hand reaching over to feel his temperature and it takes everything he has not to flinch away when Gwilym’s cool hand skims across his skin. It's an Elliot Habit he's still learning to undo, which is ridiculous because never once in either of his lives has a simple touch bothered him. Rami can feel both Joe and Ben's eyes on him now and tries to smooth his face into something more neutral. Even if he can fool Ben and Gwilym, Joe, who's known him for a good eleven years, would be able to see through him if he isn't careful.

“You sure? You feel kind of warm”, Gwilym says, sitting up and retracting his legs from Rami’s lap.

Rami muffles a groan, closing his script and uncurling himself from the couch, turning to look at the others with a tired smile.

“It’s just a bit of a headache, the bulk-up diet I’m on for Live Aid is different to what I’m used to”, Rami tries to placate. Again, not entirely untrue; he’s used to having to starve for roles, and trying to build up a body capable of completing Live Aid is a different process to what he’s used to. It’s not exactly helping his headache either.

Joe narrows his eyes at him, putting his game down and Rami knows he’s definitely losing control of the situation.

“I don’t know Rams, if you feel bad maybe you should ask for a day or two off?” he suggests, Ben nodding in agreement. Rami winces at the thought of having to ask Bryan Singer for time off, immediately shaking his head because it's more likely for John Deacon to come back than it'd be for Singer to go easy on him.

Before he can get out the words to reject the idea, the door opens, Roger’s blue eyes peering in and Brian leaning in over his shoulder. Well, Rami supposes an entire two hours is long enough for them to get antsy about his whereabouts.

“Hello boys, is everything alright in here?” Brian asks, pushing Roger inside and giving them all a wave.

“Rami has a headache and Gwil thinks he has a fever”, snitches Ben. Rami shoots him a glare, repressing an angry pout when Joe nods along in agreement.

“I think he might have had it for a while too, but I know he wouldn't say something because that's what he did when we were filming the Pacific”, Joe adds, crossing his arms like he's just unveiled some great truth.

Roger frowns, turning a look on Rami that makes him feel like a scolded child. He'd be angry at the lot of them if he didnt know they did it out of care, but the fact that the sudden clamor makes his aching head worse doesn't make him any less irritable.

“Why didn't you say anything, Fr-Rami?” asks Brian. Nobody seems to notice the slip, but it still makes his stomach clench, his twisting mind simultaneously reaching and recoiling at the use of his old name.

“I promise, its nothing I haven't worked through before, just a bit of a headache. I'll take some ibuprofen and I'll be right as rain”, Rami assures them all. His eyes beg them all to just drop it, that he'll be  _ fine _ and he won't have to feel guilty about making everyone worry.

Brian nods after a few beats of silence, giving Rami a stern look that he promptly ignores because ignoring Brian's Looks seems to be ingrained into his DNA.

“Oh, but we did have an announcement to make”, says Roger cheerfully, his airy voice climbing an octave in his excitement. The boys wait, curiosity written on all their faces. 

“John Deacon's going to come visit the set in a few days to watch you boys rehearse for Live Aid!”

Roger's excitement is infectious. Joe barks a startled  _ holy shit,  _ looking both terrified and overjoyed and Ben gives him a hearty slap on the back, lips split into a massive grin. Gwilym can't seem to wipe the dazed awe off his face, blue eyes big with astonishment. Well, Rami thinks, maybe Singer might go easy on him, then. And then, when it hits him, Rami knows he's not the only one whose entire heart seems to lurch into his throat, but he feels like it might be for entirely different reasons.

He's going to see John again.

Tears, hot and wet and itchy threaten to slip onto his cheeks so he blinks them furiously away, trying to swallow his heart back into his chest while he's at it. His head throbs painfully, burning images of himself (taller, hair longer, wavy) curled up with-playing scrabble with-singing with-laughing with-

He's going to see  _ Deacy _ again.

Air, Rami suddenly needs air because he's going to see one of his best friends again and it's going to be as himself but not because he's seeing his old friend and Deacy's going to be meeting the actor playing the man who'd been like a brother to him. It's that same creeping dread that had crawled into his belly when he'd gone to meet Roger and Brian again for his audition and also somehow worse because he has so many things he wants to say (so many things he feels he has to apologize for even if Brian and Roger are adamant aren't his fault) but he can't. Rami may be Freddie, but he's not the one Deacy mourned. Rami can't say thank you or sorry for things he did as Freddie because while Rami's always been Freddie, Freddie was never Rami and Rami doesn't feel he has the right to  _ anything  _ Deacy-John- might feel for Freddie.

He stands, woodenly, a faint smile curling over his mouth. He dismisses himself politely and rushes towards his trailer, intent on finding a quiet place to organize his thoughts. Rami wishes that the thought of seeing John again would bring up any other emotion than grief but.

Ra-Freddie had died. He'd died. (He doesn't remember that part thankfully, nothing except for Jim's strong, warm hands clasped around his own clammy ones, cold teardrops drying on his brittle skin, and then-). He'd left his friends, his husband, and his legacy behind and no it's not his fault he'd died, but he can't help but feel guilty over the pain it had caused. The grief that had caused John to leave.

And maybe he’s angry.

Angry because  he didn’t have more time with them as Freddie, saddened by it too and- and he likes being Rami now (more than he used to), but.

_ But, but but but but butbutubutbut _ -

His tumbling thoughts come to an abrupt halt when he crashes head on with someone else walking through the labyrinth of a set. He’s smaller than whoever he’s walked into (no big surprise) and Rami finds himself on his ass, staring dazedly into Aaron McCusker’s big brown eyes.

“Damn, I’m so sorry!” Aaron flusters, leaning down to offer Rami a hand.

“No, no, it’s my fault, don’t worry about it Jim”, Rami reassures, taking the solid grip to let himself be pulled up.

“Uh?” says Aaron, and it takes Rami a second to realize he’s gone and slipped up and he feels like his heart’s just come stuttering to a stop. 

“Oh, Aaron, sorry, my head’s just”, Rami waves a hand, trying to put across the sheer disorganization going on in his aching head. He just wants to go hide in his trailer, maybe call Sami for some comfort (and maybe wrap himself in blankets to imagine that he’s in Jim’s arms again, safe and content and  _ loved _ ).

“No, it’s fine, just-”, Aaron takes Rami’s flaying hands to push them back to his sides and sets his own hands on his thin shoulders, “are you okay? Is… You seem like you have something on your mind.”

Rami laughs, short and brittle, and shakes his head, mouth curling into one of his knife-sharp smiles. He misses the brief hour of euphoria spent at Brian’s after playing the piano and feeling as if he’s finally  _ together _ , the hole in his chest finally sealed shut after years and years and years and  _ years _ of constant agony rather than the feeling of his mind being stretched like taffy in two different directions. But he can’t say anything to Aaron because despite his kind eyes and sweet smile and charming hands, he doesn’t  _ know.  _ And right now, Rami doesn’t have the energy to articulate much of anything.

“I’m fine-just. A little overwhelmed is all. I just got some very big news-John Deacon is coming, did you know?- and I need to clear my head, is all, away from the excitement”, Rami explains, fingers tapping anxiously against the denim of his jeans. Aaron’s eyes search his face, contemplative, his hands still heavy and comforting on Rami’s shoulders, before he nods and steps back.

“Alright”, he says gently, “if you um, if you need someone to talk to, I’ll be in my trai-”

“Actually”, Rami interrupts, nerves fluttering like moth wings in his stomach, “I wouldn’t mind if you accompanied me to my trailer.”

Aaron looks startled for a moment, but he offers Rami his arm and Rami, hesitating for only a blink, takes it.

…

If he closes his eyes, he can imagine he’s back in Garden Lodge, a large fluffy cat on his lap, Jim’s arm around his shoulders, Jim’s soft, Irish croon reading to him from a book he doesn’t remember buying. 

…

“Good morning, Rami”, says Roger, barging into his trailer at six in the morning, coffee steaming in a cup in his hand. Rami groans, burying his head under his pillow and contemplating throwing Roger out because filming doesn’t start for another two hours and he doesn’t even have to spend that long in makeup. 

“Since when are you a morning person”, Rami grumbles, peering at Roger with one very disgruntled green eye.

“Oh hush up and get over here before your coffee gets cold”, Roger scoffs, arranging himself on Rami’s couch and setting the coffee and a cup of tea Rami hadn’t seen onto the small table in front of it. Rami, reluctantly, rolls out of bed, ignoring Roger’s snort of amusement at his wild bed-head curls and the shirt he almost definitely stole from Charlie Hunnum at some point while they were filming Papillion (so what if it’s huge on his very slender body? It’s comfortable).

He perches on the couch next to Roger, scrubbing sleep out of his eyes and accepting the warm cup. It’s just slightly sweet and though it’s scalding, Rami feels just tired enough to down half of it in one go. It burns his throat on it’s way down but at least it wakes him up enough to not be completely useless in a conversation.

“Rog, not that I don’t appreciate you waking me up entirely too early, but why  _ exactly _ did you wake me up entirely too early”, Rami asks, mouth twisting into a frown when he realizes Roger hasn’t taken his sunglasses off. He’s hiding something, then, and it makes Rami uneasy.

“Please, can’t I just visit my dear friend?” says Roger, waving his hand to shoo away Rami’s suspicions.

“Rog.”

There’s a beat of silence, Roger pressing his lips into a thin, white line, staring down into the clear depths of his tea as if looking for answers.

“Rog”, says Rami, softer. Carefully, slowly, he puts a hand on the older man's shoulder, wondering how Roger ever looked so small or how he had ever felt so big.

“It… it feels unreal. I feel like I'm dreaming, like I'll wake up any moment and you'll  be gone and this whole production will be back to stage one. Sometimes I feel like I'm still mourning you, because you're Freddie and you have his memories but you're also Rami and…”

“I'm different”, Rami concludes, throat thick. A phantom echo of pain reverberates in his chest, sticking to his ribs and lancing into his heart.

“I'm sorry.”

Roger's hand curls around his own, squeezing gently, protectively, and Rami wonders if this is what having a grandfather feels like.

“You've got nothing to be sorry for, kiddo”, says Roger fiercely, drawing Rami in for a tight hug, bringing back memories of affectionate pre-show cuddles, of bunching up on top of each other on a couch after an exhilarating and exhausting show.

“We've missed you”, Roger whispers, voice muffled by Rami's mass of curls.

“Missed you too, blondie”, Rami murmurs back.

He falls asleep like that, in Roger's familiar embrace, and Roger lets him, removing his sunglasses to wipe away tears and watching sadly as his tea grows cold.

...

Joe's doing that thing he did, back when they were filming the Pacific.

Rami can feel his eyes on him as easily as he can feel Brian and Roger's, like back when their set had been muddy and wet and cruel and Joe worried about Rami getting too in his head. He doesn't blame him, not when Joe's seen him cry over stealing gold teeth from a false corpse and later having to shake him out of a nightmare of the same thing (except the bodies were real and they were his friends and the blood on his hands just wouldn't come off-). And Rami knows he's worried about filming Live Aid and John Deacon being there and Rami possibly having a breakdown in the middle of it because even on the Pacific Joe hasn't had to be subject to all the panic attacks Rami's had just reading the script. (It’s not really something he can help. Allen is one of the nicest people he’s ever met, but the mere thought of even associating with Paul Prenter again makes his heart shutter.)

So. He lets Joe watch him.

He’s got plenty of people watching him, but it hasn’t become cloying, not when they’re all people he cares about, who care about him. And it helps, when he’s missing his twin, to have sibling-like friends around.

…

“Rami, man, why are you calling me at two in the morning? I’ve got a class tomorrow…”

“Sorry, I forgot about timezones, nevermind, go back to bed.”

“Wait, wait, I know that tone, what’s wrong? What’s got you so nervous?”

“... It’ not-”

“I will fly over there on the next plane to fight you if you say it’s nothing.”

“J-John Deacon is going to be at the rehearsal tomorrow. And… He doesn’t know about the  _ thing _ . You know, the thing that had me worried about taking this role in first place?”

“Oh, you mean the whole situation about you being his reincarnated best friend that he’s thought has been dead for the better part of twenty years?”

“I-well yes,  _ that _ situation, you jerk.”

“Sorry, one doesn’t just get used to their brother being a rock god reborn.”

“Sami.”

“Right! Yeah, Rami, you’re gonna be amazing, John Deacon’s probably going to realize who you are, he’s gonna rip you a new one, then all of you are gonna cry, you’re gonna call me in the dead of night again, still crying and I'm  gonna say I told you so.”

“Thanks Sam, you always know just what to say.”

“As your twin, I know you're rolling your eyes at me. But I also know you're smiling,so clearly I win.”

“I'm hanging up now.”

“Break a leg, Rams.”

“... Thanks Sami.”

…

It's freezing and their Live Aid costumes do little to to protect them from the chill. Rami has it worse, trembling in little more than his thin tank top, false teeth chattering until Gwilym sweeps in to wrap himself and his big puffy coat around Rami's petite frame. Ben and Joe gravitate towards them, and they all huddle together in the recreated Wembley stadium’s backstage.

Neither Brian nor Roger are there yet, which is just as well because they'd probably lose their minds about Rami catching his death in the cold weather.

There’s still cameras being set up and people arriving and Polly gave up on trying to rehearse with Rami after the third time she heard his stomach complain in hunger. She’d gone to find him something from catering several minutes ago and Rami wonders who she’s catching up with while he shivers in Gwilym’s arms and his empty stomach continues to grumble. (He hates himself for letting the nerves get the best of him and denying him even a small breakfast).

“Why didn’t you bring a jacket, dumbass”, Ben grouches at him, flicking Rami’s cold, freckled shoulder. 

“The better question is  _ why didn’t you eat _ . You know this isn’t the Pacific right? You’re not in danger of losing your breakfast during filming”, adds Joe, poking him in the ribs.

Rami doesn’t justify either with an answer and instead huddles closer into their circle of warmth, teeth biting into his lips to stop them from chattering. There’s nothing he can really do about his hunger so he ignores it in favor of trying to reach for his memories of Live Aid all those years ago. He’s not having much luck for some reason, edges blurred, voices slurred, instruments sounding distorted and distant. It’s easier thinking of the archive footage, see himself-Freddie-strutting across the stage, eyes fever-bright even from a distance, every move electric and energetic.

“Boys, first position” calls the assistant director and their little group reluctantly separates, Ben, Joe and Gwilym shedding their jackets and setting them aside for one of the stage managers to pick up.

“Wait, are Brian, Roger, and John here already?” asks Gwilym, trying to peek through the curtain.

“Yes, they got a bit stuck up in traffic but Brian says kill em boys”, answers one of the tech crew triple checking a set of wires.

Rami feels like he's in a daze as he hops around to hype himself up, fingertips numb while his whole body buzzes with electricity. His ears barely catch the call for action and something indescribable catches in his throat as he rushes on stage, band behind him, the roar of the Wembley crowd ahead. They scream for him, for them, and he takes a second to wave before trotting up to his piano,  making sure its tuned before going straight into the song. Its euphoric when the crowd starts singing along, it feeds him and before long, he's up out of his seat, half-mic stand in hand and crooning to the tune of Radio Ga Ga, the entire stadium clapping along.

The world is in the palm of his hand when he sings, it feels, and Brian's right there, playing with a matching intensity. Deacy does his quiet stomping routine, easily as engrossed in the music as the rest of them and Freddie delights in sharing the spotlight with him before jumping onto Roger's riser, bopping along to the hypnotizing beat. Fire sings in his veins, electricity dances along the corner of his eyes, bright and consuming, sweat sticky on his skin even though he feels cold as hell, freezing air rushing through his throat with every breath he takes. His vision blurs and he thinks it might be the sweat, his voice crackling in his own ears, sharp enough to slice through roar of the crowd, and-

His breath stops short in his lungs, ice prickling in his throat, needle-like-

He can’ see anymore, his crowd disappearing into a dizzy fog-

His chest  _ burns,  _ begging for a breath that won’t come, caught on the ice crystals that line his throat and the audience feels like it’s thundering in his ears,  _ stomp stomp stomping _ but forgetting to clap.

Freddie doesn’t expect the wave of nausea that hits him, pulling him down, the force of gravity gripping his limbs like lead chains and he doesn’t know how it’s possible to fall so slowly, like he’s stuck in molasses, and yet his head bounces on the stage in a finger snap. It’s lucky he’s not holding the guitar anymore, Deacy would have been incensed about the cost to replace it…

Deacy.

Deacy?

He doesn’t know why Deacy sticks in his head like gum to a table, why butterflies explode in his belly at the thought of him. Why’d he be nervous about one of his best friends? He’s-

“Rami.”

He’s never been-

“Rami!”

Why does-

“Rami, Rami!”

“Jesus, Rams, you’re scaring me, please say something!”

He blinks.

There’s a cacophony of voices all calling his(?) name, disorienting and loud and he can’t get his bearings, his sight still smudged at the edges. He can’t-he still can’t quite breathe but his hands feel too heavy to scrabble at his chest.

“Freddie, for god’s sake, just  _ breathe _ ”, whispers a voice, somehow cutting across the din and Freddie (Freddie?) recognizes it, roughened with age as it is.

His eyes flicker over to his left, three vaguely anxious faces hovering above him, one of them wet with tears. Brian’s the easiest to identify, large white curls piling over his shoulders and matching the color of his bleached white skin. His head spins a little when he realizes the man resembling a short-haired Santa Claus is  _ Roger _ \- his head hurts- and that’s-

It’s been so long-

“… Deacy?”

His voice croaks and he’s startled by the sound of it, deeper than he’s used to, softer-

“Rami? You okay?”

Oh.

Oh god.

Rami blinks and then blinks again, air finally pushing its way into his lungs, the cold air registering on his skin, shivers wracking along his body. Oh god, he’d lost himself in his mind and he’d been  _ Freddie _ and Deacy’s here-

“Wh-why am i on the ground?” he asks, nodding gratefully at Gwilym when he hands him his thick, puffy coat.

“You collapsed you idiot”, Joe half-sobs, shaking him a little and looking close to tears. Ben and Roger share twin looks of frustrated anger and Brian’s pressing his lips together into a hard line.

“The director’s called for a break, the paramedics say you’re dehydrated and that you have low blood pressure. Brian, Roger, and I will accompany you to our hotel to keep an eye on you, everyone else has the day off”, Deacy says, somehow calm among the chaos.

The other boys make noise of protest until they’re met with Brian’s stern stare. Gwilym gently helps Rami to his feet and hands him over to the band, eyes unsure. He, Ben, and Joe slowly walk away, Joe in particular looking like a kicked dog, mouth twisted in harsh frown. Rami distantly watches as Ben draws him into a comforting embrace and hopes Joe won’t tear him a new one when Brian, Roger, and Deacy finally let him go. He’s still a little dizzy when he’s bundled into Roger’s car and he falls into a doze before the wheels start rolling.

…

“I take it you, uh, recognized me.”

Deacy chuckles at him, patting his shoulder with a withered hand, using the other to subtly wipe at the corner of his eyes. His smile is warm, eyes crinkling and Rami feels strange, being younger than the youngest member of the band when for years he’d been the oldest.

“I had a feeling about you after Roggie and Bri asked me to look you up. Seeing you perform up there? It was- it was unreal, like reliving Live Aid from the audience. Honestly, you scared the hell out of me when you fell-”

“You scared the hell out of all of us!” Roger bursts, hands flailing into the air and just barely missing a startled Brian’s face.

“I forgot breakfast”, says Rami sheepishly.

“Dear, you look like you haven’t eaten in ages”, Deacy admonishes, shoving a plate of eggs and toast into Rami’s hands.

“This isn’t even the worst of it, you should see how thin he is on Mr. Robot”, says Brian, ignoring Rami’s heatless glare. Deacy shoves the plate of food a little closer to Rami’s chest.

“I really missed you, John”, Rami says quietly after a moment of quiet, eyes glued to his sunny eggs.

“Oh, none of that now, I’m Deacy to you”, says Deacy with a nostalgic smile, ruffling Rami’s curls and Rami grins in return, green eyes gleaming in the bright, afternoon sunlight.

“And… It’s good to have you back. I’ve missed you so terribly, Freddie. Rami. Just… Take care of yourself.”

“I’ll try.”

Rami leans into the embrace of his old friends, the chill of earlier gone from his skin, and like the time at Brian’s after playing the piano, he feels complete, mind settling down, the shaken pieces of his memories finally aligning.

…

“Since it’s three in the morning, can I say I told you so?”

“Yeah, whatever Sami, you were right.”

  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from:  
> Keep Yourself Alive by Queen
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! I'm open to suggestions!


	5. The Battle's Fought and the Game is Won

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rami's hard work culminates into the biggest night of his life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof, i didn't mean to take so long with this update dkghg. Work hit me way too strong, but hopefully the next chapter doesn't take as long

“And the Oscar goes to… Rami Malek!”

It doesn’t register in his head that his name’s been called (it rarely does, no matter how many awards he wins) and when it does, it feels like the breath’s been punched out of him. Rami stands on wobbly legs, brain filled with static, the roar of the crowd a dull thrum in his ears, fingers numb as he buttons his jacket close. Lucy in appears in his line of sight, and- he’s supposed to do something? 

Right, they put them together for a reason instead of letting him sit with his family. 

He doesn’t even know how long he kisses Lucy for before he’s making his way to the stage, dizzy with disbelief and eyes so blurred with tears it’s a wonder he doesn’t trip his way up the stairs. Rami might be trembling a bit as he accepts the award, words caught in his throat and all thoughts tangling against each other in their attempt to push their way out of his mouth. He blinks, long and hard, warding away the tears that threaten to spill.

And then he talks. Rami stutters through the first part of his speech, eyes desperately searching for his siblings and mother, frustrated when he can’t find them, but barreling on until he finally finds a rhythm to his words. His heart squeezes when he mentions his father, thinks of that moment they shared so very long ago when he went to Rami’s first high school play, the slow healing after his death, wishing he could be here to see Rami’s big moment. Then his eyes catch on his mother’s wet face, his twin and sister’s beaming, prideful looks, and his blood feels aflame.

_ The son of immigrants, a first generation American, he played a gay man of color and he fucking  _ won  _ after so many years of hard hard work and doubt and sweatbloodtears. _

Rami swears his heart is trying to burst out of his chest as he’s ushered backstage for interviews, hand grasped so tightly around his golden award that he’s sure it’ll leave imprints. Someone puts a glass of champagne in his hand and Rami stare blankly at the pale gold liquid and then immediately downs it. He’s going to need the courage it gives him as it makes its way smoothly into his bloodstream. There’s a blue background behind him and all his critics are cluttered before him and Rami can’t help the self-satisfied little smile that curls on his mouth, fixing up his vest before he speaks.

He just. 

He can’t stop talking about his family, his heritage, about Farrokh Bulsara and the impact he’s had on Rami’s life. The little flute of champagne keeps reappearing in his hand, always full and cool and bubbly. He’s maybe a bit tipsy when he’s finally led back to the front and he wanders away, blissfully unaware of his name being called in exasperation,  _ Rami, Rami no that’s the wrong way _ . He feels like he’s walking on air, lightheaded with success, the only thing grounding him being his grip around his Oscar and it’s like absolutely nothing could possibly bring him down. 

Until, of course, the ground literally disappears from beneath his feet and he finds himself dangling precariously in a hole in the stairs to the orchestra pit that he thinks he may have been warned about. Rami’s heart may have stopped beating out of sheer terror, the air wooshed out of his lungs and around him the alarmed shouts of people who’ve just noticed his fall. 

“Oh, Rami!” he hears, and there’s an arm grabbing him around the waist and scooping him like he weighs little more than a toddler. Behind him, Alphonso scolds him, reminding him that he’d told him  _ not to step right there _ . In front of him, Diego puts a steadying hand on his waist.

He’s put back down on shaky feet, trembling slightly, the man who had pulled him out patting him to make sure he’s whole. Rami’s Oscar is gently pushed back into his hand and someone claps as he begins to wander away. He doesn’t make it very far before one of his handlers takes him by the arm and sits him down in the front row of seats in front of the stage. 

“Rami? Rami are you alright? Should we get the paramedics? Someone get the paramedics-”

“No, no I’m fine, really”, Rami insists, though perhaps the light slur to his voice isn’t very convincing. He can’t really even explain that it’s the alcohol before the medics are being heralded and he’s surrounded by people with bright orange bags and his handlers asking him if he’s okay and then leading him to a private room upon noticing the sheer amount of cameras and curious eyes trained on them. 

“I’m fine”, he repeats as they check him over. The paramedic agrees, tells him to maybe lay off the alcohol for the rest of the night, and lets him go.

There’s another glass in Rami’s hand by the time he’s done taking pictures with the other best actor winners and he feels lightheaded all over again when he finally finds his group.

“Congrats dude!” greets Sami, drawing him in for a hug and then passing him along to his sister and then mother. Rami grins, wide and giddy, giving his mother a sloppy kiss, feeling all of ten years old again and bringing home an A in math.

Joe pulls him away, nearly crushing him in his excitement and it’s hard to find air when Ben, Gwilym, and Allen join in, suffocating him with their happy bulk. 

“ _ Thank fucking god, man you deserve this so fucking much _ !” exclaims Joe, keeping an arm slung around Rami’s shoulders, eyes so bright they make Rami feel like he’s burning, twelve years between them of struggles and doubt, of support and friendship. Joe keeping Rami from breaking down on the set of the Pacific from all the horrific acts he’d had to do and disparaging comments about his appearance-about his eyes. Rami keeping up a litany of support through texts to keep Joe’s spirits high with every new project he took on.

“Oh dear, your tie”, Gwil frets, and Rami hears Sami’s bark of laughter when he looks down to find his bowtie crooked once again, despite efforts from nearly  _ everyone _ at the damn event to straighten it.

“Booo”, says Rami, chugging at his champagne.

“Boooo!” repeat Ben and Allen, much to the amusement of Joe and Sami.

“Oh my god you’re  _ wasted _ ”, crows Sami, stealing Rami’s glass before he can finish it.

Rami whines at him, but he’s already being swept away before he can do more than make grabby hands at him. Sami waves, lips quirked in a smirk, and drinks the rest of the champagne, egged on by Yasmine. Their mother watches on with tired eyes and then they’re gone, lost among the throngs of people where he too would be lost if not for Joe’s guiding arm.

“Rami!” calls a familiar voice, and Rami looks up to find Brian and Roger waiting for them and his excitement bubbles up all over again, removing himself from Joe’s grip and jumping into Brian’s waiting arms.

“Look at what I’ve got!” cheers Rami, holding out his golden award to the delight of the older men.

“Yes, we saw, congratulations”, says Roger, both he and Brian keeping a hold on Rami to keep him from toppling over on his swaying feet. There’s still the blinding lights of flashing cameras, have been for the entirety of the night, but Rami doesn’t care, hardly ever has, and he leans up to give Brian a kiss on the cheek like he did for his mother and then affectionately resting his head on Roger’s shoulder, disoriented by the little starburst flashes combined with the endless champagne.

And the night goes on, blurring and stretching and bright, the only constant being the award in his hand, weighty and and solid where everything else feels like it could float away at any second. They give him a screwdriver and a plague with his name engraved in gold and somehow he manages to screw it on without accidentally stabbing himself. There's a bottle in his hand that's half his size and they cheer for him to open it, open it open it! So he shake, shake shakes it hard and fast to applause and laughter and more camera-click lights, foamy liquid exploding around him in a torrent and splashing onto a suit far too expensive to do this in.

Ilaria would probably kill him.

The crowds are dizzying and there's microphones pointed at him any chance they get, his small stature trapping him with the cameras and the people that come with them. Like on the stage, Rami is hardly aware of what he's saying, high on his win a little past tipsy into totally wasted (which isn't particularly hard to reach considering his size and the lack of food he's had all day, too anxious to eat anything at all).

And that only makes Rami realize how hungry he is  _ now. _

Normally, he can ignore his hunger, but today he figures he deserves to treat himself. At some point Joe and Ben had texted him that they were taking Gwilym with them to a 7/11 for snacks and Brian and Roger had disappeared to the afterparty, their inner rockstar partiers far from gone. Nobody seems to notice him anymore so Rami finds the nearest event coordinator, asks for directions to the kitchen, and hopes to god he can have a decent meal in relative peace.

When he gets there, the cooks take one glance at his skinny frame, big doe eyes and trembling hands (and possibly remember his near death experience on the stage) before gently pushing him near the large marble counter and pointing out the sliders and fries. Rami still doesn't let go of his Oscar as he digs in ravenously, the knowledge that he'll have to start his Mr. Robot diet in earnest soon spurring him to savor every bite.

He isn't really surprised when the photographers and journalists and other assorted people manage to find him. It is with a certain amount of reluctance that he leaves his food to pose and accept congratulations and to apologize to the cooks for causing such a ruckus in their kitchen. It isn't bad though.

Rami still finds it hard to believe that he's here, that there's an Oscar with his name on it, that his years and years of work are finally being recognized, can hardly believe he's won as many awards as he has- but.

The proof stares back at him with its impassive golden face. Rami, with a certain lightness in his heart, smiles brightly for the next picture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from Gimme the Prize by Queen
> 
> This wasn't even the chapter I had originally been working on, but I HAD to write something to celebrate our boy getting what he deserves! Hope it was alright!


	6. So Give Me Hope in the Darkness That We Will See the Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rami can see ghosts, which comes with it's ups and downs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this may have taken a bit longer than usual because I keep rewatching Papillon. Send help.

Rami's been able to see them for as long as he remembers. 

They're always there, whether as a wisp just in the corner of his eye, a blurry haze with a vaguely human figure, or a full apparition with hollow eyes and searching hands. Their presence is cold, paralyzing, and uncomfortable, their empty eyes seeking him out, knowing he’s the only one who can see them. It’s rare that they’re not like that, that he meets a spirit solid enough to pass for a person, though they still follow him, drawn to him, hoping he knows the way to move on. 

Rami is ten years old, though, and doesn’t know how to explain he doesn’t know what they want.  

Rami doesn’t even have a very good concept of death yet. He wonders why neither Sami nor Yasmine are able to see them, why Sami doesn’t shiver when a shadowy wisp of a hand passes through him, why Yasmine doesn’t blink when something hulking and frigid and  _ dark _ stares her in the eye, the void trying to look back into eyes that do not see. Rami does not look, averting his gaze and hoping to go unnoticed. It doesn’t work nearly as often as he wishes. Thankfully, while his parents don’t get it and his sister thinks it’s just his imagination, Sami  _ understands _ . Sami can’t see them or hear them or even feel them, but he knows his twin and he knows the difference between Rami having fun creating a character and Rami being tormented and followed by something only he can see.

(And though Sami can’t see them, he always feels the hint of a cold breeze drawing goosebumps on his skin, feel something Not Quite Right when his brother’s talking to thin air. It’s a bit of a strange sensation, being able to feel what his brother sees when no one else does. He can’t  _ feel _ them like Rami does, not physically, but he thinks the sensation is close enough. ).

Even well into his teens, the spirits don't go away. If anything, their presence intensifies and Rami can see into their lives, the entirety of their pasts laid out before him with little more than a brush of skin. Its disconcerting and disorienting, like being pulled out of his own skin and forced to live, however briefly, as someone else. He feels like he gains some control back when he starts doing theatre, contorts himself into a new person but on  _ his _ terms, allowing the tiniest slips of himself to show through to remind himself he's still  _ Rami _ .

There doesn’t seem to be a single theatre that isn’t haunted though, which isn’t a particularly happy thought. However, the spirits stick to the backstage, passive, or watch from the seats in the back, a peculiar haunted pride in their eyes. 

They don’t bother Rami so Rami doesn’t bother them.

* * *

 

Somehow, the ghosts of war follow him to Australia. 

They hadn’t been there when he’d been auditioning, he’s sure, though he’d been too nervous to make note of even the small whispers of the dead that faded into the thrum of the other boys. Rami had only started to notice them creeping in during bootcamp, boys with empty eyes and bloodied uniforms that stood out starkly next to his laughing, tired but bright-eyed castmates. 

They seem too real, too solid in the harsh glare of the sun, but everyone looks right past them. They track Rami though, with their beseeching eyes and the occasional shark grin, but even well into his twenties, Rami doesn’t know how to help them get what they want. It gets worse when the man Rami’s supposed to be portraying finally finds him.

Snafu Shelton’s grinning down at him, wearing his face because he knows it makes Rami’s skin crawl. He’s mean and he’s broken glass-sharp and he makes damn sure Rami knows that war’s no game, puts memories of fire and fear into his head because if he’s going to do this  _ he’s gonna do it right _ . And Snafu isn’t the only one to have decided to stick to him rather than watch him from a distance. Other soldiers mill around him, looking at him with angry eyes, like he’s gone and interrupted a deep, dreamless sleep and Rami gets the feeling that that’s exactly what he’s done. Snafu more or less confirms it one night, when he’s curled up in the corner of his room, hands over his ears, staring blankly at the wisp of a soldier missing an arm.

“Why are you here. Why did they follow me”, Rami asks, his voice croaking and nearly gone. The soft twang of something swampy melts the edges of his west coast pronunciation. 

“Because you’re  _ here _ , boo”, Snafu answers, the same Louisiana lilt on his tongue, just a touch more bitter. His mouth lifts, twisting Rami’s ghostly face into hungry wolf grin.

…

Shooting this project affects everyone, makes them all on edge, makes them all a little glassy-eyed, but Joe notes, with some trepidation, that Rami seems just a bit worse off. When they’d met, Rami had been a charming and endearing if slightly awkward young man, big eyes bright and excited and full of life. The Rami curled up on Joe’s bed at three in the morning in fluffy pajamas that Joe found at the bottom of his suitcase is withdrawn, head pulled to his knees, hands clenched into the pajama pants after Joe gently tugged them out of his curls. 

“Rami?”

It’s been an hour since Rami first appeared at his trailer doorstep, swaying with exhaustion obvious from the dark circles under eyes turned sickly green by Joe’s muted, fluorescent lights. He doesn’t answer Joe, but he uncurls slightly, not flinching away when Joe puts a hesitant arm around his shoulders. Rami relaxes further, leaning into Joe’s side.

“Can I stay here?” Rami asks, the deep rasp of his voice muffled by the material of the pajama pants. Joe’s quiet for a second, thrown by the soft question, but it takes very little thought to answer a sympathetic  _ yes _ .

…

Eugene Sledge, for reasons that are pretty easy to predict, is attached to Joe like a second shadow. 

Snafu is blessedly quiet around Eugene, shifting back into his own body even, and Rami’s never been more grateful to have Joe as his friend, never asking about his odd behavior but always willing to indulge him with a certain level of concern. Rami wants to tell him. He's sure, after everything Joe's done for him, that Joe deserves to know why he's always so on edge, why he seems to worse off than the rest of the guys (who also tend to look out for him with varying degrees of concern.) Rami just isn't sure Joe would believe him.

Sami's the only one who knows, and that's because it's  _ Sami _ , his twin who he could share nearly anything with. The thought of telling Joe about his abilities and being laughed at fills him dread, ice lining his stomach though he's sure Joe wouldn't mean it to be cruel.

Just. How exactly is Rami supposed to explain it?

He’s been thinking about ways to tell Joe, and he’s thinking about it now, curled next to him under an umbrella at the beach on one of their scarce days off. Brendan’s fallen asleep on Rami’s legs, and after Joe had stopped laughing, he’d collapsed next to Rami and let Rami rest on him. Eugene and Snafu seem more whisplike in the bright, Australian sunlight and the rest of the spirits that seem drawn to Rami like he’s gravitational force look like little more than gleaming specks in the corner of his vision. It’s like it’s too bright for them, not just the sun, but the cheerful atmosphere, the boys cheerfully relaxing on the beach in their colorful swim trunks too different from the gloom and misery from filming. The warmth and company makes Rami feel sleepy, his thoughts soft and syruppy though he tries his best to keep his mind on track. 

_ How to tell Joe… _

_ How to…. Tell. Tell Joe he can….. _

_ Tell Joe… _

“Tell Joe what?” asks Joe from beside him, mostly bringing Rami out of his sleep-haze state.

Rami’s eyes lazily flick to him, meeting amused, earthy brown eyes. 

“Nothing”, Rami sighs, settling back down. The sleep-haze creeps back in, sticky and hot, hardly relieved by the shade of their umbrella. His legs have gone numb. Thinking of a way to tell Joe of his abilities seems like a fruitless task, so instead, he falls asleep.

…

_ The sand feels like fire beneath his fingers, tiny hot grains digging needle-like into his palms, his grip on his gun made sweat-slick and scrambling up the dunes is made difficult by the whistling bullets and panicking, shouting men around him. He frantically blinks sweat out of his eyes, dragging sea-salted air into his struggling lungs as around him, his company is blown to pieces.  _

_ Everything feels scorched, the earth, his throat, his soul, but he keeps moving, ears straining for orders, eyes quick to track his mortar squad, mouth dry as a bullet sceams past his face. _

_ His heart pounds painfully in his chest, attempting to combust because it knows knows knows he ain’t goin home, ain’t  _ nobody _ going home. He feels like a wild thing, the logical part of his brain tucked away under layers of primitive survival and the gun is his claws, a snarl sitting heavy on his dry tongue. At this moment, the Louisiana bayou is as far away as the stars, and Snafu’s sure he’ll never see them, the stars, his bayou ever again, the world’s on fire and he’s burning alive- _

“Rami! Christ dude, wake up!”

He wakes with a sharp gasp, hand twitching for a gun that isn’t there, vision terrifyingly unfocused. He’s breathing hard and he doesn’t know who-where he is and he feels so  _ cold _ -

“Jesus, Rams, how the fuck are you so cold?”

There’s a pair of hands cradling his face, warm ( _ burning)  _ against his icy skin. He blinks, slowly, his breathing gentling until Joe’s concerned face comes into focus, eyes wide and concerned. 

“Rami-”

_ Rami Rami Ramiramiramirami- he’s. He’s Rami.  _

To the left of Joe, Sledge and Snafu flicker in and out of sight, surprise on their faces, and the orbs of spirit energy blink away on Rami’s every other breath and if not for Joe’s stabilizing hands, Rami would have lost control of his breathing again.

“Please man, you gotta talk to me”, Joe’s voice wafts in, thick with worry, and Rami forces himself to concentrate on him. He breathes, deeply, shivering at the salty air but not letting it throw him back into the memory.

“Just a bad dream”, he finally answers, and he’s thankful that Joe doesn’t mention the way his voice slurs with an accent. Joe lets him go, gives him space to breath, and Rami is grateful, but misses the connection.

The beach is isn’t as full as when he’d fallen asleep, the sky tinged faintly with pink, he notes distantly. 

“I need to tell you something”, Rami says, and quietly sighs in relief when it comes out California crisp.

…   
Somehow, against all odds, Joe believes him. Rami feels too in the clouds to really hear him chatter away about a grandmother in Italy who often spoke to passed family members. What matters though, is that he understands, that Rami  _ finally _ has someone he can talk to about it. He hasn’t been able to talk much with Sami and that's probably contributed to his stress, but now that he can share this with Joe, he feels like a weight’s been lifted off his shoulders. 

Of course, he feels terrible when he flees to Argentina as soon as he can.

* * *

 

The shadow that follows him on the set of Need for Speed has no distinct shape or face, but it’s cold and it’s suffocating, and it’s almost impossible to ignore it. It’s a shame that he’s only  _ just  _ noticed it because he’s come to realize it’s been his companion for nearly as long as Sami, has dogged his steps for as long as the void of depression and anxiety burrowed it’s way beneath his ribs. It’s grown without him noticing, and now it’s too big to ignore, and he’s drawn into periods of melancholy just a little more often. 

The thing sticks to his castmates, an ominous dark omen that makes Rami twitchy and nervous. His castmates assume it’s just one of his quirks, and really, they aren’t far off, Rami’s twitchy and distracted even when there isn’t  something hovering over Aaron’s shoulder as he talks about going out to dinner with Ramon and Scott. 

“... so what do you think?”

“Yeah, dinner sounds like fun”, Rami replies, dragging his eyes back to Aaron’s excited face and not the looming spirit behind him. He doesn’t even know what kind of dress he’s supposed to wear to dinner, whether casual or high scale. Ah well. He’ll ask Ramon at some point.

Aaron beams at him, patting his shoulder before heading off to his trailer to shower.

Rami anxiously taps his thigh, watching as the cold grip of shadow lifts from Aaron and makes its way back to him, always hovering but never quite touching, not latching on like it would his castmates. Rami shivers, it's strange chill crawling up his spine and he glares at the thing, though it remains impassive.

_ What do you want,  _ he thinks, bringing his coat closer around him. It does not answer him.

“And who put that frown on your face?”

Rami jumps, pulled out of his staring contest with the  _ thing  _ by Ramon's bright voice, a warm hand slung heavy around his shoulders. He's being pulled in the direction of Ramon's trailer before he can open his mouth to answer, dread trickling like acid in his belly as the  _ thing _ drifts to cling onto Ramon, chilled,claw like hands slicing into tanned skin like hooks into a cliff face.

“God, why are you always so cold?”, Ramon continues, trying to rub warmth back into Rami's arm and failing.

“I'm a small person with no body fat, it's impossible for me to stay warm”, Rami tells him cheerily. 

“Oh, shut up!” Ramon laughs, poking at Rami’s ribs, throwing him into a fit of deep giggles, attempting to pull away from the offending fingers but anchored in by Ramon’s strong arms.

“Attack! This is an attack!” Rami cries, trying to slap away Ramon’s fingers, chest heaving with laughter as his ticklish sides are tackled, butting his head into Ramon’s chest with little success of any actual damage. By the time they’ve made it to Ramon’s trailer, they’re both out of breath, choking on giggles that the crew have long since learned to ignore. His eyes flick over to Ramon’s back and finds that the shadow is gone, melted away into the dark crevices of the set. Rami mentally shrugs and continues to banter with Ramon, not quite ready to confront the  _ thing _ that’s been following him since he first realized just how hard it would be for him to break into this industry.

* * *

 

Somewhere, between laughing with Carly and joking with Christian and quiet conversations with Sam, Rami finds that his cold, persistent shadow has thinned into a whisp. 

He calls Sami at some point, delighted that he’s been feeling lighter despite the dark things they’re filming. It’s not that they don’t bring him into depressive moods, but he finds it easier to lift himself out of them, or to let Christian, Sam, or Sami pull him out. He’s been talking to Joe again, on and off over the years, their friendship always clicking back into place as if no time has passed. Occasionally he’ll ask about the spirits Rami sees (if the nightmares have stuck with him), and Rami answers truthfully, that there’s always just been an array of spirits drawn to him (and that the nightmares are rare now, hardly a blip now that he’s got Elliot’s mind to distract him from Snafu’s influence).

New York has always been abundant in its ghosts, and Rami’s gotten good at telling the difference between them and the living. His shadow’s stopped latching onto his castmates, hovering close by but still never quite touching. Rami’s made his peace with it.

He really has.

* * *

 

Papi and Dega were but a faint fog, watching over him and Charlie as they filmed Papillon. 

Freddie is not.

Freddie feels alive like no ghost since Snafu has, bright and vibrant and determined to be heard by the only living ears that can. He’s only mildly tempered by Jim, who follows him with fond exasperation, the faint outline of a cat always on his heels. Rami has never been more relieved that his allergies don’t extend to the sunshine balls of energy.

“Well aren’t you a precious little thing”, Freddie coos, flicking a cool finger at Rami’s Elliot-shorn hair.

“Um”, says Rami, eloquent, because he’d  _ just _ gotten to his hotel from Roger Taylor’s flat and had been hoping for a long, long nap.

“Ignore him”, says Jim, pulling Freddie back and putting a cat in his hands to distract him. “You look tired, you should sleep.” Rami feels dizziness fall over him, catching a glimpse of Jim’s apologetic wince before stumbling onto his bed, breaths slow but shallow. 

“Oh dear, you should probably learn to control that”, says Freddie’s faint voice. The bed doesn't dip, but Rami feels cool, gentle fingers run through his hair, a soft, crooning melody floating above him.

“You’re the one singing the lullaby”, argues Jim, but Rami barely hears him, his eyes slipping close.

…

“What’s  _ that _ ”, Freddie asks while Rami texts Joe about meeting up for a movie night on their day off. Rami’s eyes roam over to what Freddie’s pointing at and sees the wispy outline of his icy shadow, grown tiny over the years. 

“Oh, nothing”, Rami answers, going back to his phone. He can  _ feel _ Freddie's dissatisfaction, but he refuses to elaborate, not even when Freddie drops a weightless cat on him. It's not like it'll activate his allergies, unlike the living cats that the crew knows he can't interact with without proper medication. Freddie, undeterred, drops another cat on him, and then another and soon Rami finds himself swarmed with spirit cats, Freddie pushing on his shoulder and demanding attention.

“Leave him be” scolds Jim, picking up one of the cats but not really bothering to help Rami.

“You know, I thought when you said you’d help me with lines, you’d actually, I don’t know, help me”, Rami drawls, sprawling backwards on his bed and displacing the cats piled on his lap. Both Freddie and Jim make noncommittal noises and Rami knows they’re too busy watching whatever he left on the tv as background noise.

_ Snafu was more helpful _ , he thinks. More traumatizing, yes, but also more helpful. 

But then, Freddie’s been very careful about not giving him any nightmares at all. Dreams bleed through, heady lights and the wave-crash of singing voices, long hair heavy with sweat like a mane around his face. Freddie commends Rami and Polly’s extensive research over the way Freddie moves and speaks, pitching in himself on occasion, but mostly observing, because he wants to watch Rami  _ work _ . And that’s fine, it’s encouraging even. Especially when Freddie first sees Rami in full costume, dark locks curling delicately on his shoulders, the nails on one hand painted black, the faux wings of his angel costume swishing with his every movement. 

Freddie looks like he’s either on the verge of tears or hysterical laughter. He takes Rami’s face between his cold, slender hands, warm brown eyes meeting with nervous pale blue.

Somehow, Jim’s reaction is even more gratifying. There’s something soft in his eyes as he looks from Freddie to Rami, cataloging their differences and feeling his chest constrict at their similarities.

(Rami calls them dad, at some point, by accident, and then Freddie really does cry.)

…

They’re there, as he’s doing his scene with Aaron on the couch, voices mere whispers in the back of his mind. Freddie’s memory of his first kiss with Jim filters into his head, searching but sweet and it influences his kiss with Aaron, instinctively has him leaning into the warmth of the hand cradling his face. 

And it leaves him feeling hollow when Aaron moves away, eyes gentle, his line about Freddie likeing himself floating away with him. Freddie’s lingering feelings of disappointment over an event that didn’t happen leaves him wrong footed so he’s relieved when they’re done shoot and shuffles away from the set, attempting to pick out his own emotions from Freddie’s.

The scene was good, he tells himself, and that should make him happy. Instead, his shadow pulls him into a mood, and he frowns. He spies Joe though, on the fringes of the crew, and Rami does what he’d always done back when his mind was too much and he’d needed a break from himself. 

Joe’s happy to accept him in his trailer, letting him switch into comfortable, slightly overlarge pajamas, not giving a damn about his harsh diet and insisting he enjoy a pint of icecream with him. Rami accepts, the veil of his foul mood mellowing, and in the corner of his eye, Freddie smiles at him, friendly and apologetic all at once. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from: Ghosts that we knew by mumford and sons
> 
> hope you enjoyed!


	7. Drop Our Anchors in a Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sami is a good brother, but what's new

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not happy with this and it's pretty damn short, but it's been too long, and I really wanted to post something sdhhg. Hopefully the next chapter is a little better

Exhaustion slows his steady pace to a drawn out drag, other tired people bumping into him with mumbled apologies in passing, though Sami doesn’t really mind, hoping to just find a bench to rest on. When he does, he collapses with a heavy sigh, his bags falling with a heavy thump at his feet. He doesn’t get to rest long before his phone chimes and when Sami’s eyes fall on the message, his lips curl into a small smile, fondness softening his face.    
  


_ Ten more minutes, don’t fall asleep,  _ his brother’s text reads. Sami rolls his eyes, but sits up, flicking through different apps on his phone to keep jet lag from getting the best of him.    
  
Sami’s scrolling through twitter when he feels someone barrel into him, and it’s only the fact that Rami’s so small that keeps them from toppling over on the bench. He laughs, giving his twin a tight hug before they both get up, Rami snatching up one of his bags as he goes, an eager smile on his thin face.

“Need to grab anything before we leave?” Rami asks, tugging his big coat closer, eyes flickering around nervously, on the lookout for the paparazzi.

“Nah, let's go, I'm fucking tired”, Sami answers with a roll of shoulders, groaning when he feels a satisfying pop. Rami nods and they shuffle out as quickly as they can through throngs of people, somehow avoiding recognition and slipping quickly into a rented car.

Sami shoots his brother a quizzical look when he slides in next to him, but his silent question is answered when a familiar freckled face grins back at them from the rearview mirror, red-brown hair turned copper in the weak morning light.

“Hiya Sami”, chirps Joe, entirely too chipper.

“He's had at least four energy drinks since he woke up”, Rami mock whispers to him, playful smile curling on his lips.

“Oh? And what about you?” Sami teases because he knows Rami isn't much of a morning person.

“ _ I'm  _ taking a nap”, says Rami.

He takes off his coat before buckling in, a soft, oversized sweater keeping him warm in the absence of the jacket he bundles up to use as a pillow. His head ends up on Sami's shoulder, but he hardly notices it, lulled into his own doze by the long drive and Joe's quiet selection of music. He stares through blurry, unfocused eyes at the passing scenery of London, the pale gray of the city meshing with storm clouds, messy paint brush strokes against his window.

“Hey guys, we’re here”, Joe tells them what seems like minutes later. His voice is quiet as he shakes them both awake. 

Sami grumbles at him, slapping his hand away but sitting up and jostling Rami away in the process. Rami startles up, eyes wide and hazy, utterly confused before his surroundings register to him.  

“We’re here already?” he slurs, wiping at his eyes, jaw cracking wide open with a yawn. 

“Yeah buddy, c’mon, the bands’ waiting for us”, says Joe cheerily, waiting for the twins to slip out of the car.

They’re both a bit clumsy in their drowsiness, Sami from the jetlag, Rami from sleeping for the first time in what Joe thinks might be months. Sami pulls an arm around Rami’s shoulders when he stumbles, and they all make their way into Roger’s home. Ben and Gwilym are already here, relaxing on one of the couches in the living room across from Brian and Roger, two younger mirror images. 

“Hello, we’re here!” Joe calls out cheerily, and he’s greeted back by four excited british voices; the sleepy twins are quickly awakened by the the stampede of eager men that rush at them, pulling them into a tight group hug, Joe caught somewhere in the middle. 

When they all separate, a look of sheepishness on Gwilym and Ben’s face, and grandfatherly fondness on Brian and Roger’s, Rami’s bouncing on his heels, shooting them a bright, happy look. 

“So are you finally going to introduce us to your body double?” asks Ben, eyeing Sami. 

“Yeah, this is my twin brother, Sami”, Rami introduces with a grin, and Sami steps forward to shake everyone’s hands, all of them making their way back to into the living room. 

“You’re not quite identical”, notes Roger, offering Sami a beer, who gratefully accepts it. 

“Oh, they used to look much more alike”, says Joe, pulling out his phone to show to the group, ignoring the ribbing Rami gives him over not getting to show his own pictures. The Rami and Sami in the picture are much younger- The Pacific era, which was probably around the last few years that Rami and Sami looked identical. Rami doesn’t look all that different, a little softer in the face, curls brown rather than the black they’d been dyed for the movie. Sami looks much smaller in the picture, and it’s only his slightly wider face that allows them to know which is which. His hair’s longer too, and he lacks a beard. 

“Damn, what happened?” laughs Ben, squinting from the twins on the phone to the twins on the couch, cataloging their differences with fascination. Gwilym rolls his eyes at him, though he too finds it interesting. Rami shrugs, shucking off his sweater off to lay it on his lap, leaving him in only a loose red button up. 

“I’m not the one who keeps having to lose weight for roles”, says Sami, giving his brother a flat look. Rami pointedly doesn’t look at him- it’s his job, and if he needs to stay tiny for his roles, then so be it. 

“Well, it’s good to finally meet you, Sami. Rami’s told us a lot about you”, rumbles Brian with a welcoming smile, and Sami nods back in gratitude. 

“Rami’s talked about you guys often too. He was excited to work with Joe again, and he thought it was so cool to get to work with Queen”, Sami tells them. Brian turns twinkling eyes on Rami, and Roger chuffs, pleased. 

“And what are we, peanuts?”, scoffs Ben, though he laughs afterwards and Gwilym rewards him with a smack to the arm. 

“I promise I thought you were very lovely to work with”, assures Rami and Ben narrows his eyes at him, suddenly suspicious of the man who’d played the drum prank on him. Rami’s grin turns catlike, a twin smile growing on Sami’s face, and a shiver runs down Ben’s face. 

Damn twins.

The rest of the day is spent catching up and talking, eventually putting on a movie (Disney, obviously, because they put Joe in charge of picking up some movies). Rami’s delighted to be with his brother again, having to be away for so long makes him feel lonely, even with his friends around him. He supposes it’s a symptom of having grown up so closely together, sharing everything from their first words to their first steps. Sami’s happy to be able to keep an eye on his brother again, if only for a little. He worries about his twin, about the industry tearing him apart, even when he’s managed to make it this far.

  
But he’s pleased that he makes friends so easily among his colleagues. That he has people who’ll look out for him when Sami can’t. That, at least, helps him breathe easier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Hurricane by Panic at the Disco

**Author's Note:**

> I have so many little story ideas I can't wait to do
> 
> Fic Title from '39 by Queen  
> chapter title from House of Memories by Panic! at the Disco


End file.
